There
was something there that had not been on the table before she went to
sleep. In a delicate little glass, thin and clear as a soap-bubble,
was the most lovely rose Bee had ever seen--rich, soft, _rose_
colour, glowing almost crimson in the centre, and melting into a
somewhat paler shade at the edge.
[Illustration: 'IT'S A ROSE FROM ROSY.']
"Oh you beauty!" exclaimed Bee, "I wonder who put you there. I would
like to scent you"--Bee, like other children I know, always talked of
"scenting" flowers; she said "smell" was not a pretty enough word for
such pretty things--"but I am afraid of knocking over that lovely
glass. It must be one of Aunt Lillias's that she has lent."
A little soft laugh came from the side of her bed, and, leaning over,
Bee caught sight of a tangle of bright hair. It was Rosy. She had been
watching there for Bee to wake. Up she jumped, and, carefully lifting
the glass, held it close to Bee.
"It isn't mother's glass," she said; "it's your own. It _was/_
mother's, but I've bought it for you. Mother let me, because I
_did_ so want to do something to please you; and she let me
choose the beautifullest rose for you, Bee. I am so glad you like it;
It's a rose from Rosy. I've been sitting by you such a time. And
though I'm so pleased you like the rose, I _have_ been crying a
little, Bee, truly, because you are so good, and about my going
to-morrow.
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