UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE 
 
 BASKET OF FLOWERS; 
 
 PIETY AND TRUTH TRIUMPHANT. 
 
 A TALE FOR THE YOUNG. 
 
 AND ARRANGED 
 
 BY G. T. BEDELL, D.D. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 PUBLISHED BY FRENCH AND PERKINS. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 PERKINS AND MARVIN. 
 
 MDCCCXXXIII.
 
 ENTERED according to the Act of Congress, in the year 
 1833, by FRENCH & PERKINS, in the Clerk's Office of the 
 District Court of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. Page 
 
 The early History of Mary 7 
 
 2 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ^ Mary is introduced into the Castle of the Count - 19 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 [ The Diamond Ring lost v 28 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 Mary in Prison -36 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 The Trial of Mary 43 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Mary's Father visits her in Prison r - - 47 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 The Judgment of the Court pronounced and executed 52 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 James and Mary compelled to beg, but at length find 
 Shelter 59 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The happy Life of Mary in the Pine Cottage - - 64 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 The Father of Mary is taken sick - - - - 71 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 Death of Mary's Father 81
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. Page 
 
 Mary experiences fresh Trials 90 
 
 CHAPTER Xm. 
 Mary turned away from the Pine Cottage -96 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 Divine Providence sends Relief to Mary - - -101 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 How Amelia came to visit the Grave-yard - 104 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 The Story of the finding of the Ring - - - 110 
 
 CHAPTER XVn. 
 
 The Injustice done to Mary acknowledged and re- 
 paired 117 
 
 CHAPTER XVIU. 
 Another remarkable Circumstance of this History - 120 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 Visit to the Pine Farm 125 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 The Consequences of the Love of the World - -130 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Mary's Spirit of Christian Forgiveness - - -135 
 
 CHAPTER XXH. 
 Mary's happy and useful Life - ... 139 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 The Tomb of Mary's Father 142
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 THE following beautiful and useful story was 
 first read in French, and the idea immediately 
 suggested itself to my mind, that with some 
 alterations to make it convey lessons of clear 
 and decided evangelical truth, it would be a 
 very interesting little work for the libraries of 
 Sunday-schools, and every variety of youth- 
 ful readers. The story is very touching, and 
 the lessons taught are most useful and im- 
 portant. I have never read lessons of prac- 
 tical piety drawn with more simplicity than 
 they are in this little book from the beauties 
 of nature. Indeed in almost every chapter 
 we find, addressed to the youthful heart, ser- 
 mons whose texts are the flowers of the 
 garden. 
 
 Where the story is merely translated, the 
 translation is a very free one, and in many 
 places large omissions are made, and in others 
 considerable additions will be found. 
 
 G. T. B. 
 
 November, 1832. 
 
 A3 5
 
 THE 
 
 BASKET OF FLOWERS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The early History of Mary. 
 
 THE relation which we are about to give in 
 this little book, is about some interesting 
 transactions which occurred a long time ago, 
 and in a country far removed from our own. 
 This will account for some manners and cus- 
 toms which are not altogether familiar to our 
 young readers ; but we shall endeavour to 
 make the history so plain and familiar, that all 
 who read may understand the valuable instruc- 
 tions which it is intended to convey. Human 
 nature is the same in all countries, and the 
 operations of divine grace are the same in all 
 countries ; and therefore the principles which 
 will be developed in this history, and the con- 
 duct which will be described, are such as are 
 in constant operation everywhere about us. 
 The whole history is full of interest and of the 
 most valuable moral and religious instruction ; 
 one which we are persuaded our young read- 
 ers will peruse with pleasure, and one from 
 which they may reap very great advantages. 
 
 7
 
 8 THE BASKET 
 
 James Rode, who was the father of Mary, 
 was born of poor but respectable parents in 
 Germany. When he was young, he went to. 
 learn the art of gardening, from the gardener 
 of the count of Eichbourg. As he was a young 
 man of good natural understanding, and of an 
 amiable disposition, and distinguished for his 
 uprightness of character, he soon became a 
 great favourite with all ; and instead of going 
 away after he had learned his trade, -to follow 
 it elsewhere, the count took him into his own 
 employment, and so faithfully did he dis- 
 charge his duties, that as he advanced in life 
 he was rewarded by the present of a little cot- 
 tage, and land sufficient to afford him a decent 
 maintenance by gardening. While he was 
 quite young, James Rode had been brought to 
 a knowledge of the truthas it is in Jesus Christ. 
 He had been born again of the Spirit, and 
 these are the reasons why he had been ena- 
 bled so faithfully to discharge his duties. He 
 married a young woman in the neighbour- 
 hood, who was an orphan, But who had tasted 
 of the same precious gift of God ; and thus 
 James showed his obedience to the divine pre- 
 cept to "marry only in the Lord ;" a precept 
 which, being so much neglected, brings a vast 
 deal of unhappiness to multitudes both male 
 and female. For several years James and his 
 wife travelled the pilgrimage of life together ; 
 in their humble way so adorning the doctrine
 
 OF FLOWERS. 9 
 
 of God their Saviour in all things, as not only 
 to win respect a*id affection to themselves, but 
 even to the religion which they professed. No 
 matter how humble the situation any real 
 child of God may occupy, if he is consistent 
 in his walk and conversation, he is a witness 
 for the truth of religion which no enemy can 
 be able to gainsay. Such were James and his 
 wife, but as there are no conditions of life, high 
 or low, from which affliction and death can be 
 excluded, this pious couple were frequently 
 called in the providence of God to bear their 
 portion of that discipline by which a merciful 
 God secures to himself the hearts of his real 
 children. Several of the offspring of this 
 pious pair were in faith consigned to the 
 cold tomb, "waiting for the general resur- 
 rection at the last day, and the life of the world 
 to come ;" and at length the mother her- 
 self, after a brief and painful sickness, fol- 
 lowed her children to the same narrow house 
 the grave. She died as she had lived in the 
 full hope of everlasting glory, founded on the 
 promises of HIM who is " the resurrection 
 and the life." The grief of the husband was 
 softened by the resignation of the gospel, and 
 the blissful prospect of meeting where friends 
 who have loved the Lord can never be sepa- 
 rated either from Him or from . one another. 
 When those we love " die in the Lord," we 
 may say,
 
 f 
 
 10 THE BASKET 
 
 " Why should we mourn departed friends, 
 
 Or shake at death's alarms ? 
 Death 's but the servant Jesus sends 
 
 To call them to his arms !" 
 
 At the time which this history contemplates, 
 James Rode was more than sixty years of age, 
 and his hair almost as white as the snow upon 
 the mountains. Of his numerous family one 
 only daughter remained. Her he had called 
 MARY after her mother. This child was but 
 five years of age at her mother's death. By 
 all the neighbours she was called a beautiful 
 girl, and sometimes they were indiscreet 
 enough to call her so before her face a very 
 great mistake, as all children are naturally 
 prone to vanity. What was really worth call- 
 ing beautiful was, that she dearly loved her 
 father, and was modest and obedient. With- 
 out these all external appearances are nothing 
 worth. When Mary came to be fifteen years 
 of age, her father gave her the entire charge 
 of the household concerns, and she took such 
 good care that every thing about the house was 
 kept in the most perfect cleanliness, even the 
 kitchen utensils \vere always scoured so bright 
 that they might have been mistaken for new. 
 Jfcimes Rode, as we have already said, was 
 a gardener. He made his living by the culti- 
 vation of fruits and vegetables, which once or 
 twice a week, similar to our custom about 
 Philadelphia, he carried to market in the town, 
 which was a very little ways from his farm.
 
 OF FLOWERS. 11 
 
 His great delight, however, was in the culti- 
 vation of flowers, and in this delightful occu- 
 pation Mary continually assisted him when 
 she could be spared from the household con- 
 cerns. She counted the hours devoted to this 
 occupation among the happiest of her life, for 
 her father had the art of turning labour into 
 pleasure by his instructing and entertaining, 
 and above all, his pious conversation. 
 
 Mary, who grew up as it were in the midst 
 of the plants, and for whom the garden itself 
 
 was a little world, had early discovered a de- 
 cided taste for flowers ; and thus in the hours 
 which she had at her disposal, was always 
 sure of an agreeable occupation. She culti- 
 vated the young plants with great care and 
 assiduity. 
 
 The buds of everystrange species were ob-
 
 12 THE BASKET 
 
 jects of delightful study. She busied her 
 young imagination in suggesting what kind of 
 flowers they would produce, she was hardly 
 able to wait till they were expanded ; and then 
 when the flower so impatiently expected ap- 
 peared in all its splendour, she was filled with 
 joy. The old gardener used to say, " Let others 
 spend their money for jewels and silks and 
 other vanities, I will spend mine for flower 
 seeds. Silks and satins and jewels cannot 
 procure for our children so pure a pleasure 
 as these beautiful exhibitions of the wisdom 
 and the benevolence of God." In truth, there 
 was not a day which did not bring some new 
 pleasure to the heart of Mary. It was rare 
 that any one passed the garden without stop- 
 ping to admire the beauty of the flowers ; and 
 even the children of the neighbourhood, as 
 they passed by to school, never failed to peep 
 across the hedge, and were generally reward- 
 ed by Mary with some little present of flowers 
 as a token of her good will. 
 
 James, as a wise father, knew how to direct 
 the taste of his daughter towards an end the 
 most ennobling. In the beauty of the various 
 flowers which adorned their garden in the 
 charming variety of their forms in the just- 
 ness of their proportions in the magnificence 
 of their colours and in the exquisite sweet- 
 ness of their perfumes, he taught her to see 
 and to admire the power, the wisdom, and the 
 goodness of God. These were some of the
 
 OF FLOWERS. 13 
 
 great ends towards which he directed all her 
 pleasures ; and thus may emphatically be said 
 to nave led her contemplations 
 
 " From nature up to nature's God." 
 
 It was the custom of James Rode to conse- 
 crate to prayer the first and best hours of the 
 morning, and thus to let every thing begin 
 with God. In order to accomplish this, and 
 not to neglect his work, it was his constant 
 habit to rise early a habit almost essential to 
 a spiritual frame of mind. The life of that 
 man is but poorly filled out, who cannot find 
 one or two hours to discourse with his heaven- 
 ly Father without interruption, and to occupy 
 his contemplations with the things which re- 
 late to his everlasting peace. In those beauti- 
 ful days of spring and summer which charac- 
 terized the climate of his country, James would 
 lead his daughter to an arbour in the garden, 
 from whence could be heard the morning song 
 of the feathered tribes, and from whence could 
 be seen the whole of the garden, enamelled 
 with flowers, and sparkling with dew the 
 range of vision taking in a rich plain shining 
 in the rays of the rising sun. It was in a 
 situation so favourable to devotion as this, 
 that he delighted to converse with his tender 
 charge of that God, who gave the sun his 
 brightness, who scattered o'er the earth the 
 rain and the dew-drops, who fed the birds of 
 the air, and dressed the flowers in their mag- 
 B 
 
 :!
 
 14 THE BASKET 
 
 nificent vestments. It was here that he ac- 
 customed the young mind of Mary to contem- 
 plate the Almighty, as the tender Father of 
 mankind, as that Father, who has manifest- 
 ed his love towards mankind in all the works 
 of his creation, but still infinitely more in the 
 gift of his dear Son to die for perishing sin- 
 ners. It was here that he taught her her 
 own condition as a sinner ; that he placed in 
 terms the most affectionate before her the 
 need of a Saviour, and gently led her to Jesus 
 Christ. It was here that he taught her to 
 bend her knees to the God and Father of our 
 Lord Jesus Christ ; and it was here that he 
 had the happiness of perceiving that, like 
 Lydia, the Lord opened her heart to the re- 
 ception of the truth. These morning exercises, 
 as might well be expected, fixed more and 
 more deeply on her heart the sentiment of 
 piety. 
 
 In the flowers which Mary most loved, her 
 father was accustomed to point out the em- 
 blem of those Christian graces which adorn the 
 female character. Once in the early part of 
 March, when, with transports of joy, she 
 brought the first violet, he said, " Let this 
 charming violet serve as an image of humility, 
 of reserve, and of a ready, though always dis- 
 creet disposition to oblige. Its clothing has the 
 colour appropriated to modesty; it loves to 
 flourish in places retired from common obser- 
 vation ; and from beneath the leaves which
 
 OF FLOWERS. 15 
 
 cover it, it embalms the nir with the most de- 
 licate perfumes. So, my dear child, may you 
 be, like a violet, a lover of silence, disdaining 
 the show of gaudy colours, never seeking to 
 attract unnecessary notice, but seeking to do 
 good without parade, so long as the flower 
 of your life shall bloom." 
 
 At the time when the lilies and the roses 
 were altogether expanded, and when the gar- 
 den shone in all its splendour, the old man, 
 seeing his daughter elated with joy, pointed 
 with his finger to a lily, shining in the rays 
 of the rising sun, and said : See in this 
 lily, my daughter, the symbol of innocence ; 
 observe how neat and pure. Its leaves are of 
 one whiteness which outvies that of the rich- 
 est satin, and equals that of the driven snow. 
 Happy is the daughter whose heart is also 
 pure ; for remember who has said that it is 
 the * pure in heart who shall see God.' But 
 the more pure the colour, the more difficult 
 to preserve it in all its purity. The slight- 
 est taint can spoil the flower of the lily, and it 
 must be touched even with the greatest pre- 
 caution, lest it retain the blemish. Thus also, 
 one word, one thought can rob the mind of its 
 purity. Let the rose," said he, pointing to 
 that flower, "be an image of modesty. The 
 blush of modesty is more beautiful than that 
 of the rose. Happy is the daughter whom 
 the least approach of that which is indelicate 
 will cause to blush, and thus be put on guard
 
 10 THE BASKET 
 
 against the approacVug danger. The cheeks 
 which readily blush will remain for a long 
 time with their roseate hue, while those which 
 fail to blush at the least indelicacy will soon 
 become pale and wan, and devoted to an early 
 death." The father of Mary gathered some 
 lilies and roses, and made of them a bou- 
 quet,* and putting it into her hands, he said: 
 " The lilies and roses are brothers and sisters, 
 and nothing can equal the beauty of bouquets 
 and garlands, where these flowers are mixed. 
 Innocence and modesty are twin sisters, which 
 cannot be separated. Yes, my dear child, 
 that innocence might be always on her guard, 
 God, in his goodness, has given her modesty 
 for a sister and companion to anticipate the 
 approach of danger. Be always modest, and 
 you will be always virtuous. Oh, if the will 
 of God be so, may you always be enabled by 
 his grace to preserve in your heart the purity 
 of the lily. The rose on your cheek must 
 fade, but it will be renewed again, if you but 
 attain to the resurrection of the just, and then 
 it shall flourish in immortal youth." 
 
 " The morning flovv'rs display their sweets, 
 
 And gay their silken leaves unfold ,- 
 As careless of the noonday heats 
 
 And fearless of the ev'ning cold. 
 Nipp'd by the wind's unkindly blast, 
 
 Parch'd by the sun's more fervent ray, 
 The momentary glories waste, 
 
 The short-liv'd beauties die away. 
 
 * Pronounced bo-fcay a bunch of flowers.
 
 OF FLOWERS. 17 
 
 So blooms the human face divine, 
 
 When youth its pride of beauty shows ; 
 Fairer than spring the colours shine, 
 
 And sweeter than the op'ning rose. 
 But worn by slowly rolling years, 
 
 Or broke by sickness in a day, 
 The fading glory disappears, 
 
 The short-liv'd beauties die away. 
 Yet these, new rising from the tomb, 
 
 With lustre brighter far shall shine ; 
 Revive with ever-during bloom, 
 
 Safe from diseases and decline. 
 Let sickness blast and death devour, 
 
 If heaven shall recompense our pains ; 
 Perish the grass, and fade the flow'r, 
 
 If firm the word of God remains. 
 
 The most beautiful ornament of the garden 
 was a dwarf apple tree, not higher than a rose- 
 bush, which grew in a little circular hot-bed 
 in the middle of the garden. James had 
 planted it on the birthday of his daughter, 
 and it gave them every year the most beauti- 
 ful golden-yellow apples, spotted with red. 
 One season it was peculiarly promising and 
 covered with blossoms. Mary did not fail to 
 examine it every morning, and she would ex- 
 claim in ecstasy, * Oh, how beautiful, how 
 superb this mixture of red and white ! One 
 would believe that the little tree is but one 
 great bunch of flowers." One morning she 
 came at the usual hour, but the frost had 
 withered all the flowers. They were almost 
 brown and yellow, and were fast shrivelling 
 up by the sun. At this dismal sight, poor 
 Mary burst into tears. " As the frost spoils 
 
 B2
 
 18 THE BASKET 
 
 the apple blossom," said her judicious father, 
 " so unholy gratifications mar the flower of 
 youth. Tremble, my child, at the possibility 
 of departing from the way of rectitude. Ah, * 
 if the time should ever arrive when the de- 
 lightful hopes which you have authorized 
 should vanish, not for a year, like the hopes 
 of this tree, but for your whole life, alas ! I 
 should shed tears more bitter than those which 
 trickle from your eyes. I should not enjoy 
 a single hour of pleasure, but my gray hairs 
 would be brought with sorrow to the grave." 
 At thoughts like these James himself could 
 not refrain from tears, and his words of affec- 
 tionate solicitude made a deep impression on 
 the tender heart of Mary. 
 
 Brought up under the zealous and perse- 
 vering care of a father so wise and tender, 
 Mary grew up among the flowers of the gar- 
 den, fresh as the rose in purity like the lily 
 modest as the violet, and giving the most 
 delightful hopes of future excellence, as a 
 beautiful shrub in the time of flourishing. In 
 fact, she was a* tender sapling, but the plant- 
 ing of the Lord, that he might be glorified. 
 
 It was with a smile of satisfaction and gra- 
 titude that the old man always viewed his 
 beautiful garden, of which the fruits repaid, 
 and amply repaid, his assiduous care. But he 
 was enabled to experience a satisfaction the 
 most profound, when he beheld his daughter,
 
 OF FLOWERS. 19 
 
 in whom, by the grace of God resting on his 
 own pious labours, the religious education 
 which he gave her seemed to bring forth the 
 most precious fruits to the praise and glory 
 of God. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Mary is introduced into the Castle of the Count. 
 
 IN almost all countries, the month of May 
 is remarkable for its charms, so much so, as 
 to justify the language of the poet, 
 
 - Sweet month, 
 
 If not the first the fairest of the year." 
 It was early in the charming month of May, 
 that Mary went into a neighbouring wood to 
 cut some branches of the willow and twigs 
 of the hazel. She gathered them for the use 
 of her old father, for when he was not busily 
 engaged in the garden, he occupied his time 
 in making baskets, particularly ladies' work- 
 baskets. He made it a point never to be idle, 
 for industry is essential to happiness and use- 
 fulness. It is melancholy to consider how 
 much time is wasted by young persons and 
 old. What our Saviour said in relation to 
 the food with which he had miraculously fed 
 the multitude in the wilderness, is in a very 
 emphatic sense applicable to' those little parts
 
 20 THE BASKET 
 
 of time which, because we may not have im- 
 mediate occupation, we are apt to waste in 
 idleness. " Gather up the fragments that re- 
 main, that nothing be lost." It is incalculable ' 
 what might be gained to the Lord's cause, if 
 those who are called Christians would but in 
 some useful form devote to purposes of Chris- 
 tian benevolence those " fragments" of time 
 which are so generally wasted. James Rode 
 was never idle. He knew his duty to God 
 too well, to waste any portion of that time 
 which God had given him, and for which he 
 knew he would have to render an account. It 
 is true, that in the days in which he lived 
 there were none of those blessed plans of 
 Christian benevolence which are now so vi- 
 gorously in motion for the conversion of the 
 world, and therefore he had no such object in 
 view in the full occupation of his time. He 
 was industrious because it was his duty, and 
 he laboured in the house in basket-making 
 when he was not obliged to be in the garden, 
 because the habits of industry had grown 
 with his growth and strengthened with his 
 strength ; and it was while thus occupied that 
 Mary read to him in God's precious book, or 
 he talked to her about the concerns of her im- 
 mortal soul. 
 
 While Mary was in the woods gathering 
 the materials for her father's basket work, 
 she found some beautiful specimens of the
 
 OF FLOWERS. 21 
 
 lily of the valley, and she gathered enough 
 of them to make two bunches, one for her fa- 
 ther, and the other for herself. When she 
 had finished her work she returned home by 
 a nearer path across an intervening meadow, 
 and by so doing she met the countess of 
 Eichbourg and her daughter Amelia, who were 
 taking an afternoon walk. Mary had very 
 seldom seen either of them, for they lived for 
 the most part of their time in the city ; but 
 were now spending a few days at their cha- 
 teau. As she could not avoid meeting them, 
 she stepped a little one side, with true po- 
 liteness, such as all well bred and pious 
 young people will, to let them pass. But 
 when they saw the beautiful bunches of lilies 
 which she had, they stopped to admire them, 
 and wanted to buy one. This Mary would 
 not allow. She begged that the ladies would 
 each accept a bunch, and this she did with 
 such unaffected grace and good nature, that 
 they could not refuse. Amelia requested her 
 to gather more, and bring them to the chateau 
 every morning, which she promised, and which 
 she faithfully performed during the season in 
 which the lilies were in bloom. 
 
 It is said, and the remark is justified by 
 experience, that some of the most important 
 circumstances of our life grow out of events 
 apparently of the most trifling character. It 
 proved so in the case of Mary, as the whole
 
 22 THE BASKET 
 
 history will fully evince, for to this accidental 
 meeting, as we usually speak, is to be traced 
 the most of what is of deep and painful in 
 this little story. But God overrules all events," 
 and it is abundantly proved, that " all things 
 shall work together for good, to them that love 
 him." 
 
 From Mary's regular visits to the chateau 
 to carry her morning bunch of flowers, as 
 might have been expected, an intimacy grew 
 up between her and Amelia, for they were 
 nearly of the same age, and had many similar 
 tastes, though Amelia was destitute of that 
 " one thing which is needful." 
 
 On the whole, it is better that there should 
 not be too much intimacy between those who 
 from difference of fortune, or other accidental 
 circumstances, are compelled to move in very 
 different spheres. This remark, it is true, 
 applies in a very limited degree to this our 
 happy country, where there are no privileged 
 orders, and where there ought to be no dis- 
 tinction but that great one which God makes 
 between those who serve and those who serve 
 him not. Still friendships formed between 
 those who in the providence of God are placed 
 under very dissimilar circumstances are not 
 much to be encouraged, and especially when 
 but one of the parties knows and feels the in- 
 fluence of religion. Evil is always more 
 powerful than good example, and there are
 
 OF FLOWERS. 23 
 
 few who will not be led to envy that which 
 they suppose conducive to the happiness of 
 those who possess all that the world can give. 
 
 As the anniversary of Amelia's birth-day 
 was drawing near, Mary determined to make 
 her some little rural present, but as to bunches 
 of flowers, she had given so many already, 
 that she wanted to think of something new. 
 During the preceding winter, her father made 
 many work-baskets, all of superior elegance, 
 but the most beautiful he meant for Mary 
 herself. On it he had worked the design of 
 the village, and for that kind of work it was of 
 remarkable perfection. Mary determined to 
 fill this basket with flowers, and to offer it to 
 the young countess as her birth-day present. 
 Her father readily granted his permission, and 
 still more to embellish the beautiful basket, he 
 put Amelia's name in elegant willow work on 
 one side, and the coat of arms of the count on 
 the other. 
 
 The expected day having arrived, early in 
 the morning Mary gathered the freshest roses, 
 the most beautiful stockgilli-flowers, the rich- 
 est pinks, and other flowers of the most beau- 
 tiful colours. She picked out some green 
 branches, full of foliage, and disposed the 
 flowers in the basket, so intermingled with 
 green leaves, that all the colours, though per- 
 fectly distinct, were yet sweetly and delicately 
 blended. One light garland, composed of rose-
 
 24 THE BASKET 
 
 buds and moss, was passed around the bas- 
 ket, and the name of Amelia could be dis- 
 tinctly read enclosed in a coronet of forget- 
 me-nots. The whole appearance of the basket 
 was really of uncommon beauty. 
 
 Mary then went to the chateau, with her 
 present, which she offered to the countess 
 Amelia, adding the best wishes of her heart, 
 for her young friend's happiness, both here 
 and hereafter. The young countess was then 
 sitting at her toilet. Behind her was her 
 dressing maid, busy at a head-dress, for the 
 birth-day feast. Amelia received the present 
 with peculiar pleasure ; and she could hardly 
 find terms in which to express her delight, as 
 she viewed the charming flowers so tastefully 
 arranged in the basket. " Dear Mary," said 
 she, " you have robbed your garden to make 
 me so rich a present, and as to the basket, I 
 have never seen any thing like it in all my 
 life. Come, let us go and show it to my 
 mother." She then took Mary fondly by the 
 hand, and made her go up with her to the 
 apartments of the countess. " See, mother," 
 said Amelia, " if any thing can equal the 
 present I have received from Mary. Never 
 have you seen so beautiful a basket, and no- 
 where can you find such beautiful flowers." 
 The basket of flowers highly pleased the 
 countess. " In truth," said she, " this basket, 
 with its flowers yet wet with dew, is really
 
 'OFFLOWERS. 25 
 
 charming. It equals the most experienced 
 efforts of the pencil. It does honour to the 
 taste of Mary, but more to the kindness of 
 her heart." " Wait a little, my child," said 
 she to Mary, while she made a sign to Amelia 
 to follow her into another room. 
 
 " Amelia," said the countess, " Mary must 
 not be permitted to go away without some 
 suitable return. What have you to give her?" 
 After a moment's reflection, " I think," said 
 Amelia, " that one of my dresses would be 
 best ; for instance, if you will permit me, my 
 dear mother, that which has red and white 
 flowers on a deep green ground. It is almost 
 new, I have worn it but once. It is a little 
 too short for me, but it will fit Mary exactly, 
 and she can arrange it herself, she is so tasty. 
 If it is not, therefore, too much" 
 
 The countess interrupted her, " Too much ; 
 certainly not. When you wish to give any 
 thing, it ought to be something serviceable. 
 The green robe with the flowers will be very 
 
 appropriate for Mary. Go now, my dear 
 
 children," said the countess, when they re- 
 turned, " take good care of the flowers lest 
 they fade before dinner. I want the guests to 
 admire the basket also, which will be the 
 most beautiful ornament of the table. Amelia 
 will thank you for your present, dear Mary." 
 
 Amelia ran to her room with Mary, and 
 told her maid to bring the robe. Juliette (for 
 C
 
 26 THE BASKET 
 
 that was her name), looking at her, said, " Do 
 you wish to wear that robe to-day, Miss ?" 
 " No," said Amelia, " I intend to make it a 
 present to Mary." "Give that dress away!"* 
 replied Juliette, " does your mother know 
 that?" "Bring me the robe," said Amelia, 
 " and you need give yourself no trouble about 
 the rest." 
 
 Juliette turned herself round that she might 
 hide her spite ; and \vent away, her face burn- 
 ing with anger. She opened the wardrobe 
 with a pull, and took from it the dress of the 
 young countess. "1 wish I was able to tear 
 it to pieces," said the wicked girl. " This 
 Mary has already won the good graces of my 
 young mistress, and now, lo ! she steals from 
 me this dress, for it ought to have been mine 
 when Amelia was done with it. I wish I was 
 able to tear out the eyes of this little nosegay 
 girl. But I will be revenged." What a 
 dreadful and wicked spirit did Juliette in- 
 dulge. She ought to have been glad at Mary's 
 good fortune, but Juliette's heart was wrong 
 she would never listen to religion, and 
 this little circumstance gave her occasion to 
 display her evil temper. Suppressing her 
 anger, however, she returned with a pleasant 
 air, and gave the dress to Amelia. 
 
 " Dear Mary," said Amelia, " I have had 
 presents to-day, much more rich than your 
 basket; but none which give me so much
 
 OF FLOWERS. 27 
 
 pleasure. The flowers on this robe receive 
 it as a token of my affection, and carry my 
 best wishes to your good old father." Mary 
 then took the dress, kissed the hand of the 
 young countess, and left the chateau. 
 
 Juliette, jealous and enraged, continued her 
 work in silence. It cost her many a struggle 
 before she could finish the head-dress she 
 was preparing ; but she could not totally dis- 
 semble her wrath. " Are you angry, Ju- 
 liette ?" said the young countess. " I should 
 have been very silly," .answered Juliette, "to 
 have been angry because you choose to be 
 generous." " That is a sensible speech," 
 rejoined Amelia " I hope you may feel just 
 so reasonable." 
 
 Mary ran home full of joy, but her father 
 had too much prudence to feel any pleasure 
 whatever in such a present. Gay dresses 
 are not appropriate to those who have been 
 taught to consider more of the inward man 
 of the heart, than the outward adorning of 
 the body. " I would much rather, my love," 
 said he, " that you had not carried the basket 
 to the chateau, but it cannot be helped now. 
 This dress is in no sense valuable except as 
 a present from those whom we so highly re- 
 spect. I fear that this will but rouse the 
 jealousy of others, and what is still Worse, 
 that it may fill your own heart with vanity. 
 Take care, my dear child, that you run not
 
 28 THE BASKET 
 
 into the greatest of these two evils. Modesty 
 and good manners are more becoming to a 
 young girl, than the most beautiful and costly 
 garments. Remember the book of God says," 
 it is ' the ornament of a meek and quiet spi- 
 rit,' which in the sight of God is of great 
 price." 
 
 Dear young reader, especially if you are a 
 female, bewaffe of fondness for dress. Neat- 
 ness, according to the circumstances in which 
 you are placed, is that which is most consist- 
 ent with the will of God, and most calculated 
 to gain the real respect of the world. Many 
 a young person has been lost by the indul- 
 gence of a taste for dress, and many a young 
 professor of religion has, on this very rock, 
 made shipwreck of the faith. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The diamond Ring lost 
 
 MARY had scarcely left the castle, when 
 the countess missed her elegant diamond ring 1 , 
 and as no one had been in the room where 
 she had laid it down but Mary, suspicion na- 
 turally fell upon her. The young countess 
 Amelia immediately set out for the cottage in 
 hope that she could induce Mary to restore 
 it before the knowledge of the theft had been 
 spread abroad.
 
 OF FLOWERS. 29 
 
 Little did Mary think when she was trying 
 on the beautiful robe which Amelia had given 
 her, that she was suspected of being a thief, 
 and she was amazed at beholding the young 
 countess enter her little room, pale, trembling, 
 and almost out of breath. 
 
 " My dear Mary," said Amelia, " what 
 have you been doing ? My mother's diamond 
 ring is lost, and no one was in the chamber 
 but you : give it back quickly, and nothing 
 further will be said." 
 
 Mary, as may well be expected, became 
 frightened and turned pale as death. She de- 
 clared she had not seen the ring, and that she 
 had not moved from the place where she sat 
 when she went in. But all her declarations 
 ould not convince Amelia, and she continued 
 to urge her to give up the ring. She told her 
 that it was worth a thousand dollars, and that 
 she must have taken it. Mary wept bitterly 
 at this suspicion. " Truly," said she, " I 
 have not the ring. I have never ventured to 
 touch that which did not belong to me, much 
 less to steal. My dear father has always 
 taught me better." 
 
 At this moment the old man came in he 
 was at work in the garden when he saw the 
 young countess running with all her might, 
 and he returned to the house to see what was 
 the matter ; and when he learned the whole, 
 he was so entirely overcome that he was 
 c 2
 
 30 
 
 THE BASKET 
 
 obliged to seize hold of the corner of a table 
 and sink upon a bench. 
 
 " My dear child," said the old man, " to 
 steal a ring of this price is a crime which, in 
 this country, is punished with death. But
 
 OF FLOWERS. 31 
 
 this is not all consider the command of God, 
 * Thou shalt not steal.' One such action not 
 only renders you responsible to men, but to 
 that God who reads the heart, and with whom 
 all false denials amount to nothing. Have 
 you forgotten the holy commandment of God ? 
 Have you forgotten my paternal advice ? Were 
 you dazzled with the splendour of the gold 
 and precious stones ? Alas ! do not deny the 
 fact, but restore the ring it is the only repa- 
 ration you can make." 
 
 " Oh, my father," said Mary, weeping and 
 sobbing, " be sure, be very sure, that I have 
 not the ring. If I had even found such a 
 ring in the road, I could not have rested till 
 I restored it to its owner. Indeed I have it 
 not." 
 
 " Look at this dear young lady," said the 
 old man, " her affection for you is so great, 
 that she wishes to save you from the hand of 
 justice^ Mary, be frank, and do not tell a 
 falsehood." 
 
 " My father," said Mary, " you well know 
 that I never in my life stole even a penny, 
 and how should I take any thing so valuable. 
 Oh believe me, for I never have told you a 
 lie." 
 
 " Mary," again said her father, "see my 
 gray hairs. Oh ! do not bring them down 
 with sorrow to the grave. Spare me so great 
 an affliction. Tell me, before your Maker, in
 
 32 THE BASKET 
 
 whose kingdom there is no place for thieves, 
 tell me if you did take the ring." 
 
 Mary raised her eyes to heaven, filled with 
 tears, and in the most solemn manner assured 
 her father that she was entirely innocent. 
 
 The old man was convinced of the inno- 
 cence of his daughter. " I do believe you," 
 he cried ; " you would not dare to lie in the 
 presence of God and here before this young 
 countess and myself. And since I believe 
 you innocent, take comfort and fear nothing. 
 There is nothing to fear on earth but sin. 
 Prison and death are not to be compared to it. 
 Whatever happens then, let u"s put our trust 
 in God. All will yet come right, for he says, 
 * I will make thy righteousness as clear as the 
 light, and thy just dealing as the noon-clay.' " 
 
 " Truly," said Amelia, ** when I hear you 
 speak in this way, I also believe that you 
 have not the ring. But when I examine all 
 the circumstances, how is it possible ? My 
 mother knows exactly the place whefl she 
 put it down ; and not a living soul was there 
 but Mary, and as soon as she went out, my 
 mother missed the ring. Who then could 
 have taken it ?" 
 
 " That is impossible for me to say," re- 
 plied James. " May God prepare us for this 
 severe trial. But whatever happens," said 
 he, looking up to heaven, " I am ready. Give 
 me but thy grace, O God, it is all I ask "
 
 OF FLOWERS. 33 
 
 " Truly," said the countess, " I return to 
 the chateau with a heavy heart. This for me 
 is but a sad anniversary. My mother as yet 
 has spoken to no one on the subject but my- 
 self; but it will not be possible longer to keep 
 the secret. She must wear the ring to-day, 
 for my father, whom we expect from court at 
 noon, will immediately perceive she is with- 
 out it. He gave it to her the day I was born ; 
 and she has never ceased to wear it on each 
 succeeding anniversary. She believes that I 
 will bring it back. Farewell," continued 
 Amelia. " I will say that I consider you as 
 innocent; but who will believe me?" She 
 went out overwhelmed with sadness, and her 
 eyes filled with tears. 
 
 Mary's father seated himself upon a bench 
 resting his head on his hand, with his eyes 
 fixed on the earth. The tears chased them- 
 selves down his wrinkled cheeks. Mary 
 threw herself at his knees, and said, *' O my 
 father, indeed I am innocent of this affair." 
 
 He raised himself and looked a long time 
 in her eyes, and then said, " Yes, Mary, you 
 are innocent. That look, where integrity and 
 truth are painted, cannot be that of crime." 
 
 " O my father," added Mary, " what will 
 be the issue of this ? what is it that awaits us ? 
 If it but threatens me, I submit without pain ; 
 but that you, rriy father, should suffer on my 
 account, is an idea to me insupportable."
 
 34 THE BASKET 
 
 " Have confidence in God," answered her 
 father. " Take courage ; not one hair of our 
 heads can fall to the ground without the per- 
 mission of the Lord. All that happens to us * 
 is the will of God ; it will, therefore, be for 
 our advantage, and what can we wish more ? 
 Be not terrified keep to the strictest truth. 
 When they threaten, when they promise, do 
 not depart from truth, not even the crossing 
 of a finger ; wound not your conscience. A 
 clear conscience is a good pillow even in a 
 dungeon. Without doubt we shall be sepa- 
 rated : your father will no longer be there to 
 console you ; think only to attach yourself 
 more closely to your Father which is in hea- 
 ven. He is a powerful protector of inno- 
 cence, and nothing can deprive you of his 
 support." 
 
 Suddenly the door opened with a noise. 
 The bailiff entered, followed by other officers 
 of justice. Mary uttered a cry, and fell into 
 the arms of her father. " Let them be sepa- 
 rated," cried the officer, his eyes shining with 
 wrath. " Let the daughter be bound and cast 
 into prison. Let the father also be held in 
 safe guard. Occupy the house and the gar- 
 den ; search everywhere allow no one to 
 enter until the sheriff has made the inven- 
 tory." The officers seized Mary, who clung 
 to her father with all her force, but they tore
 
 OF FLOWERS. 35 
 
 her from the arms of the old man and chained 
 her. She fainted, and in that state was car- 
 ried away. When they conducted the father 
 and daughter across the street, a crowd accu- 
 mulated in their way. The story of the ring 
 had spread through the whole village ; the 
 neighbours pressed around the little cottage 
 of the gardener as if it had been on fire. 
 People were heard to pronounce judgments 
 the most opposite. Notwithstanding the 
 bounty of Mary and her father towards all, 
 there were some to whom it gave the highest 
 pleasure to exercise the malignity of their 
 language. The comfort which James and 
 Mary had acquired by dint of industry and 
 economy had attracted much envy. " Now," 
 said some, " we can know where all these 
 good things came from ; we were never able 
 to understand it until the present. If this 
 is the ^method, it is no great merit to live 
 in abuncfemce, and be better clad than their 
 honest neighbours." Nevertheless the in- 
 habitants of Eichbourg, for the most part, 
 showed a sincere compassion for James and 
 his daughter, and many a father and mother 
 were heard to say, " Truly the best are liable 
 to fall who would have believed this of 
 these good people ?" Others said, " Perhaps 
 it is not as is thought. May their innocence 
 be made to appear in the day of trial ; and
 
 36 THE BASKET 
 
 when that comes, may God assist them to 
 escape the terrible evils which now threaten 
 them." 
 
 Here and there were seen groups of chil- 
 dren weeping. " Alas !" said they, " if they 
 send these to prison, who will give us fruits 
 and flowers ?" 
 
 There are no circumstances in which the 
 afflicted do not find some to sympathize. But 
 for the most part so " desperately wicked" is 
 the human heart, that we are ready to believe 
 all the ill we hear of others, even without in- 
 quiry, and there are few who are willing to 
 stand-up the advocates of the distressed. 
 There is but one friend who will never desert 
 those who are unjustly suspected, and it is 
 He of whom it is said " There is a friend 
 who sticketh closer than a brother." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Mary in Prison. 
 
 MARY was almost insensible when they 
 took her to prison. When she recovered from 
 her swoon, she wept, sobbed, clasped her 
 hands, and engaged in prayer. At length,
 
 OF FLOWERS. 
 
 37 
 
 overcome with terror, overwhelmed with sad- 
 ness, and fatigued from having shed so many 
 tears, she threw herself upon her bed of 
 straw and a sweet sleep soon closed her 
 D 
 
 A Ori
 
 38 THEBASKET 
 
 heavy eyelids. When she awoke, it was al- 
 most night. The darkness prevented her 
 from distinguishing a single object. It was a 
 long while before she knew where she was.' 
 The story of the ring appeared to her as a 
 dream, and at first she thought herself on her 
 own little bed ; she was consoling herself 
 with that idea, when she felt that her hands 
 were chained. Frightened by the noise of 
 the chains, she jumped from her bed, and all 
 the sad reality burst upon her mind. " What 
 can I do," said she, falling on her knees, 
 " but raise my heart to God." 
 
 Mary then engaged in prayer. She prayed 
 for herself, but particularly for her dear father, 
 that the Lord would support him in the trou- 
 ble now brought upon him. 
 
 The recollection of her father caused a tor- 
 rent of tears to flow from her eyes. Grief 
 and pity stopped her utterance. She con- 
 tinued for a long time thus to cry and sob. 
 The moon, over which until then large clouds 
 had thrown a thick veil, now appeared through 
 a little iron grating, penetrated to the cell, and 
 threw on the floor the shadow of the grating. 
 Mary could easily distinguish by moonlight 
 the four walls of her narrow prison ; the large 
 bricks of which they were constructed ; the 
 white mortar which united the red bricks ; a 
 projection in the wall breast high, placed in -a
 
 OF FLOWERS. 39 
 
 form occupying the place of a table ; the 
 pitcher and clay porringer that were placed 
 there ; at last the straw which served her for 
 a bed. From the time that light dissipated 
 the darkness that surrounded Mary, she felt 
 her heart somewhat soothed. Besides this, 
 Mary perceived, with astonishment, that some 
 flowers seemed to shed over her prison their 
 sweet perfume. That morning she had made 
 a bouquet of rose-buds, and other flowers, 
 which remained from the basket, and had 
 placed them in her bosom. It was they which 
 shed an agreeable odour. She untied the 
 bouquet, and contemplated it by the light of 
 the moon. " Alas !" said she, " when this 
 morning I gathered these rose-buds in my 
 garden, and these forget-me-nots, who would 
 have thought that the same evening I should 
 be the tenant of this gloomy dungeon. When 
 I wore these garlands, who would have ima- 
 gined that the same day I should be doomed 
 to bear these iron chains. It is thus that all 
 earthly things are subject to change. It is 
 thus that man never knows in how short a 
 time his position may be entirely changed 
 and to what unfortunate events his most in- 
 nocent actions may give occasion. Truly 
 there is need that we should daily commend 
 ourselves to the protection of the Almigh- 
 ty." She again wept ; some tears fell upon
 
 40 ?HE BASKET 
 
 her rose-buds, and upon her forget-me-nots. 
 By the light of the moon those tears might 
 have been taken for dew-drops. " He who 
 forgets not to send the rain and dew to* 
 moisten the flowers, will not forget me," she 
 said, and then the recollection of her father 
 drew tears from her eyes. " O my dear fa- 
 ther," said she, " while I contemplate this 
 bouquet, how much advice that you have given 
 me concerning flowers presents itself to my 
 memory. From the midst of thorns I have 
 taken these rose-buds. Thus joys will arise 
 to me from the troubles I endure. Had any 
 one attempted prematurely to expand the 
 leaves of this rose-bud, it would have perish- 
 ed. It seems that God with a delicate finger 
 has gradually unfolded this purple cup, and 
 his breath shed over it a sweet perfume. He 
 can disperse the evils which afflict me, and 
 make that good which seemed but evil ; I 
 will patiently wait his time. These flowers 
 remind me of Him who created them. Yes ; 
 I will remember Him as He remembered me. 
 These tender flowers ! they are blue as the 
 heavens. May heaven be my consolation 
 under all that I suffer upon earth. Here are 
 some sweet peas, with small delicate leaves, 
 half red, half white. This plant grows and 
 winds itself around a support which it needs, 
 that it may not creep in the dust ; and there 
 it balances itself above the earth, and displays
 
 OF FLOWERS. 41 
 
 its flowers, which would be taken for the 
 wings of a butterfly. It is thus that 1 will 
 cling to God, and by his assistance will raise 
 myself above the dust and miseries of this 
 life. It is particularly this mignionette which 
 diffuses this sweet perfume. Sweet plant, you 
 exhilarate by your odour the one who tore 
 you from the earth. I wish to resemble you, 
 and to show good even towards those who 
 without any reason have torn me from my 
 garden, to throw me into this prison. Here 
 is a little sprig of periwinkle, which resists the 
 winter, and preserves its verdure, even in the 
 most rigorous seasons. It is the emblem of 
 hope. I will also preserve hope, now that 
 the time of suffering has come. God who 
 protects the freshness and verdure of this 
 plant from the attacks of winter, of ice, and 
 snow, will support me also from the attacks 
 of adversity. Here again are two leaves of 
 laurel ; they remind me of that incorruptible 
 crown, which is reserved in heaven for all 
 those who love the Lord, and have suffered 
 upon earth with submission to his will. It 
 appears to me that I already behold it sur- 
 rounded with golden rays, an imperishable 
 crown of glory. Flowers of the earth ! you 
 are short-lived, as its joys; you fade, you 
 wither in an instant. But in heaven, after the 
 short suffering we experience here below, an 
 unalterable felicity awaits us, and we will en- 
 D2
 
 42 THE BASKET 
 
 joy an eternal glory, if Christ the Saviour is 
 our hope." Mary consoled herself by thus talk- 
 ing to herself. Suddenly a dark cloud covered . 
 the moon. Mary no longer saw her flowers. 
 Dreadful darkness was diffused throughout 
 the prison, and grief re-entered her heart. 
 
 But very soon the cloud passed, and the 
 moon re-appeared in her first burst of beauty. 
 " It is thus," said Mary, " that clouds can be 
 cast over us, but they are dissipated in the 
 end, and we re-appear as brilliant as before. 
 It is thus, if a dark suspicion now tarnishes 
 my character, God will make me triumph over 
 every false accusation." Then Mary again 
 stretched herself upon her bundle of straw, 
 and slept with sweet tranquillity. An agree- 
 able dream soothed her heart, and afforded 
 her peace. She dreamed that she walked by 
 moonlight in a little garden quite new to her. 
 It was situated in a wilderness surrounded by 
 a dark forest of oaks, which offered to her 
 the greatest enjoyment. The moon until then 
 had never appeared to her so beautiful nor so 
 brilliant. Illumined by her sweet light, the 
 diversified flowers, ornaments of this little 
 garden, displayed a thousand charms and filled 
 the air with the most agreeable perfume. She 
 saw her father with her in this wonderful 
 garden. The moon illumined his venerable 
 and serene countenance, animated by a gra- 
 cious smile. She ran to him and shed sweet
 
 OF FLOWERS. 43 
 
 tears on the old man's bosom, with which her 
 cheeks were wet when she awoke. It was a 
 dream, but it comforted her heart. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The Trial of Mary. 
 
 MARY was scarcely awake, when an officer 
 came to conduct her to the tribunal. She trem- 
 bled at the sight of the dark room in which 
 the court was held. The judge was seated 
 in a large chair covered with scarlet, and the 
 clerk stood before an enormous table filled 
 with writings. The judge asked Mary a 
 number of questions, and she answered them 
 all as truth required. She wept much, but 
 persisted in declaring her innocence. " Do 
 not attempt to make me believe this," said 
 the judge. " No one but yourself entered 
 the room no one but you then can have the 
 ring. You had better acknowledge it." " I 
 cannot," answered Mary, weeping, " I can 
 never say any thing but the truth. I have 
 not seen it, indeed I have not." 
 
 " The ring was seen in your hands," con- 
 tinued the judge ; " what will you now say ?" 
 Mary persisted that the thing was impossible. 
 The judge then rang a little bell, and Juliette 
 was brought in. Juliette, in the fit of jealousy
 
 44 THE BASKET 
 
 which the dress given to Mary had caused, and 
 in the guilty design of depriving her of the 
 favour of her mistress, had said to the people 
 of the castle that she had seen Mary take it. 
 In consequence of this falsehood, Juliette was 
 summoned as a witness, and lest she should 
 be caught in a lie, she determined to main- 
 tain it, even in a court of justice. When she 
 was summoned, and the judge required her to 
 declare the truth before God, she felt her heart 
 beat quickly, and her knees trembled under 
 her. But this wicked girl listened neither to 
 the voice of the judge, nor that of her con- 
 science. " If," said she to herself, "I ac- 
 knowledge now that I have lied, then I will 
 be driven away or perhaps imprisoned." She 
 persisted in her imposture, and addressing 
 herself to Mary, she said, with effrontery, 
 " You have the ring, I saw you with it." 
 Mary heard this calumny with horror, but 
 she did not suffer passion to get the better of 
 her judgment. Sh could not, however, re- 
 frain from weeping, and her tears almost 
 choked her utterance. " It is not true you 
 did not see me with ti.3 ring. How can you 
 assert so terrible a falsehood, and thus cause 
 my ruin without my having ever injured 
 you." But Juliette, who considered her own 
 temporal interest, and felt nothing but hatred 
 and jealousy towards Mary, remained insensi-. 
 ble. She repeated her falsehood with aggra-
 
 OF FLOWERS. 45 
 
 vated circumstances and details, and then was 
 dismissed by the judge. " Mary, you are 
 convicted," said he. " Every circumstance 
 is against you. The chambermaid of the 
 young countess has seen the ring in your 
 hands ; tell me, now, what you have done 
 with it." Mary still asserted that she had it 
 not. According to the cruel custom of those 
 days, the judge had her whipped until the 
 blood came, in hopes that she would confess. 
 
 Mary screamed and wept, and continued to 
 repeat that she was innocent, but in vain. 
 Pale, trembling, and torn with blows, she 
 was again thrown into prison. Her wounds 
 gave her great pain. Stretched on a bed of 
 straw extremely hard, she passed half the 
 night without sleep. She wept, groaned, 
 prayed to God, who at last sent her a sweet 
 and soothing sleep. The next day the judge 
 had her brought again before his tribunal. As 
 severity had answered no purpose, he en- 
 deavoured to draw from her an acknowledg- 
 ment by mildness and flattering promises. 
 " You have incurred the penalty of death, 
 you have deserved to perish by the sword of 
 justice ; but confess where the ring is, and 
 nothing will be done to you. Consider it 
 well the choice is between life and death." 
 
 Still Mary stood to her first assertion. The 
 judge, who had remarked how much she loved 
 her father, added, " If you persist in conceal-
 
 46 THE BASKET 
 
 ing the truth, if you will not spare your own 
 life, spare at least that of your aged father ; 
 would you see his head, whitened by age, cut 
 off by the hand of the executioner? Who* 
 but he could have induced you to tell a false- 
 hood with so much obstinacy ? Are you ig- 
 norant that his life as well as yours is at 
 stake?" Terrified at this threat, Mary nearly 
 fainted. " Confess," said the judge, " that 
 you have taken the ring. A single word, a 
 syllable only say yes and you save your 
 life and that of your father." 
 
 This temptation was great, and for some 
 time Mary was silent. It was a moment of 
 dreadful trial. Satan suggested that she 
 could say, * I took the ring, but I lost it on 
 the road." " No," thought she, afterward, 
 "no ! it is better to adhere to the truth. It is 
 a sin to lie. Let it cost me what it will, I 
 will not depart from the truth even to save my 
 own and my father's life. I will obey God, 
 and trust him for the rest." She then an- 
 swered in a loud but tremulous voice, " If I 
 say 1 had the ring, it would be a lie, and 
 though this falsehood should save my life, I 
 would not utter it. But." continued she, " if 
 blood must be shed, spare at least the white 
 hairs of my virtuous father. 1 should be 
 most happy to shed my blood for him." 
 
 These words touched the heart of the 
 whole body of bystanders. The judge him-
 
 O F F L W E R S. 47 
 
 self, with all his severity, could not help being 
 moved : he remained silent, and made a sign 
 for Mary to be conducted back to prison. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Mary's Father visits her in Prison. 
 THE judge found himself in great difficulty 
 in coming to a decision. " To-day is the third 
 day," said he, " and we have advanced no far- 
 ther than the first hour. If I foresaw any possi- 
 bility that the ring was in other hands, I should 
 believe this young girl innocent. But all the 
 circumstances are too clearly laid down against 
 her. It is impossible that it can be otherwise. 
 She must have stolen the ring." He return- 
 ed to the countess, and again questioned her 
 as to the most minute circumstances ; Juliette 
 was also examined again : he passed the 
 whole day in reviewing the testimony ; and 
 weighing each word that Mary uttered in her 
 examination. In short, it was already very 
 late when he sent to the prison for Mary's 
 father to be brought to his house. "James," 
 said he, " I am known to be a rigid man, but 
 you cannot reproach me of having ever inten- 
 tionally injured any one. You will believe, I 
 hope, that I do not desire the death of your 
 daughter ; nevertheless, all the circumstances
 
 48 THE BASKET 
 
 prove she must have committed the theft, 
 and the law requires her death. The tes- 
 timony of Juliette gives full evidence of the 
 fact. Notwithstanding, if the ring was re-' 
 turned, and the damage thus repaired, we 
 might grant Mary a pardon in considera- 
 tion of her youth. But if she persists with 
 so much obstinacy in her guilty denial, this 
 excess of perverseness must ruin her. Go 
 to her, James insist upon her returning the 
 ring, and I pledge my word that then, and 
 only then, she will not have to abide the 
 penalty of death, but will be discharged with 
 but a trifling punishment. You are her father, 
 and have unbounded power over her. If you 
 obtain nothing, what must be our conclusion 
 but that you are an accomplice, and have par- 
 ticipated in the crime ? And I repeat, if the 
 ring is not found, I pity your case." " I will 
 speak as you desire to my daughter," answer- 
 ed James, * but that she has not stolen the 
 ring, and that she will not acknowledge her- 
 self guilty, I know beforehand, although I 
 will employ every means of finding out; and 
 if it is necessary that she perish notwith- 
 standing her innocence, it is a favour that I 
 can behold her once more before the dreadful 
 event." 
 
 An officer was sent with the old man to the 
 prison of Mary: he sat the smoking lamp 
 upon the little projection of wall which was
 
 OF FLOWERS. 49 
 
 in one corner of her cell, and upon which 
 was an earthen plate containing the prisoner's 
 supper, with an earthen pitcher full of water. 
 The poor girl as yet had eaten nothing. She 
 was lying on her straw, and with her face 
 turned towards the wall ; and was dozing, but 
 scarcely had she opened her eyes and per- 
 ceived the pale light of a lamp, than she 
 turned over, and seeing her father, uttered a 
 cry of joy, and raised herself with a precipita- 
 tion which caused her chains to resound. 
 Then, nearly fainting, she threw herself upon 
 his neck. The old man sat down with her 
 upon her bed, and pressed her in his arms ; 
 both remained for some time silent, and 
 mingled their tears together. James at length 
 broke silence, and began to speak as his com- 
 mission required. " Ah ! my father," said 
 Mary, interrupting him, " you at least can- 
 not doubt my innocence. Alas !" continued 
 she, still weeping, " is there no one but 
 what thinks me guilty ; no one, not even my 
 father ? Believe, dear father, that I am inno- 
 cent." " Be composed, my dear child, I do 
 believe you. What I have done is in com- 
 pliance with the order I received." They 
 again remained silent. James looked at Mary, 
 and saw her cheeks pale and hollow, with 
 grief; her eyes red, and swelled with weep- 
 ing, her hair floated in disorder. " Poor 
 child," said he, " God has put thee to a
 
 50 THE BASKET 
 
 severe trial, but I very much fear the most 
 cruel, the most dreadful sufferings are yet to 
 come. Alas ! perhaps the head of my young 
 child will fall by the hand of the execution-* 
 er." " Ah, my father," said Mary, " I care 
 
 but little for myself. But you " " Fear 
 
 nothing for me, my dear child," said the fa- 
 ther, " I run no risk." " Oh," cried Mary, 
 transported with joy, and without allowing 
 her father time to finish, " if that is the case, 
 my heart is relieved of a great weight ; all is 
 well ; my father, be assured I fear not death. I 
 shall find my God, my Saviour, and I shall 
 see my mother also in heaven. Oh ! what a 
 happiness will this be." 
 
 These words made a deep impression on 
 the heart of the old man, and he wept like a 
 child. " Well, God be praised," said he, 
 clasping his hands, " God be praised for the 
 submissive disposition I find you in. It is 
 hard, without doubt, very hard, for a man 
 bowed down with the weight of years, for a 
 tender father, thus to lose his only child, the 
 child of his love, and his only consolation ; 
 his last support, and the joy of his old age. 
 However," continued he, in a broken voice, 
 " may the will of the Lord be done." A torrent 
 of tears interrupted these words. " Yet one 
 word," said he, a moment after. * Juliette has 
 deposed against you. She has declared, on 
 her oath, to have seen the ring in your hands.
 
 OF FLOWERS. 51 
 
 It is her testimony that condemns you, if you 
 are to perish. But you pardon her ? Is it not 
 so ? you do not take with you any feeling of 
 hatred ? Alas ! even upon this straw, in the 
 bottom of this dark cell, loaded with heavy 
 chains, you are still more happy than she 
 in the palace of her master, clothed with silk 
 and lace, and surrounded with attention. It 
 is better to die innocent than to live disho- 
 noured. Pardon her, Mary, as thy Saviour 
 pardoned his enemies ; do you pardon her?" 
 Mary assured him that she did. " Well," 
 said her father, who heard the officer coming 
 to separate them, " I recommend you to God 
 and his grace, and if you are not to see me 
 again, if this is the last time I am permitted 
 to hold converse with you, rny daughter, at 
 least I will not be long in following you to 
 heaven ; for I feel that I shall not survive this 
 parting." The officer warned the old man 
 that it was necessary to depart. Mary wished 
 to retain him, and held him in her arms with 
 all her strength ; but her father was obliged 
 to disengage himself as gently as he could, and 
 Mcry fell insensible on her bed. James was 
 brcught again before the judge. As soon as 
 he entered, he raised his hands to heaven and 
 cried out, almost beside himself, * She is 
 innocent." " I am disposed," said the judge, 
 *' to believe it ; but unfortunately I cannot judge 
 from your testimony, nor that of your daugh*
 
 52 THE BASKET 
 
 ter. I must pronounce sentence from the 
 nature of the testimony, and according to 
 what is prescribed, even to the utmost rigour 
 of the law." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The Judgment of the Court pronounced and executed. 
 
 As may well be imagined, all were curious 
 to know what would be the issue of this un- 
 fortunate affair in which Mary was involved. 
 Every well disposed person trembled for her 
 life, for at this time the crime of theft was 
 punished with great rigour, and the penalty of 
 death was often inflicted for the theft of a sum 
 not equal to the twentieth part of the value of 
 the ring. The count wished for nothing so 
 much as to find Mary innocent. He himself 
 read all the testimony, and conversed for hours 
 at the time with the judge, without being able 
 to convince himself of Mary's innocence. 
 The two countesses, the mother and daughter, 
 begged with tears in their eyes, that Mary 
 should not suffer death, while her aged father 
 spent days and nights supplicating unceasingly 
 the Lord, that he would be pleased to con- 
 vince the world of the innocence of his 
 daughter. 
 
 Whenever Mary heard the officer enter
 
 OF FLOWERS. 53 
 
 \vith his keys, she thought that they were 
 going to announce to her the time of her 
 death. Meanwhile the executioner was en- 
 gaged in preparation for the punishment. Ju- 
 liette in walking saw him engaged in this 
 work, and her heart was overwhelmed with 
 grief. Horror seemed to deprive her of her 
 presence of mind ; and when she sat down to 
 supper, she could touch nothing, and every 
 one saw that she was not in her ordinary 
 spirits. She went to bed, but her sleep was 
 disturbed, and more than once in her dreams 
 she saw the bloody head of Mary. Her re- 
 morse gave her no rest neither day nor night, 
 but the heart of this wicked creature was too 
 hardened to confess her falsehoods, and she 
 was determined not to repair her fault by a 
 sincere acknowledgment. 
 
 At length the judge pronounced the sen- 
 tence. In consideration of Mary's extreme 
 youth and (until now) unblemished reputation, 
 the sentence of death was changed to that 
 of the banishment of herself and father, for 
 he considered her father, whether by the act, 
 or whether by the bad education he had given 
 her, had rendered himself an accomplice of 
 her crime. Their possessions were to be 
 sold to contribute as far as they could to the 
 reparation of the loss which the count had 
 sustained, and to pay the expenses of the 
 court. This sentence was to be carried into 
 E 2
 
 54 THE BASKET 
 
 execution the next morning at the break of 
 day. 
 
 Mary and her father passed before the cas- 
 tle gate, conducted by an officer, when Ju- 
 liette came out. Seeing that the affair, con- 
 trary to all expectation, had taken a different 
 turn from what she had anticipated, this cun- 
 ning girl, destitute of every good sentiment, 
 regained her gayety. She had now accom- 
 plished exactly what she wanted. She al- 
 ways feared that in the end Mary would sup- 
 plant her. This fear was now dissipated. 
 Her first aversion against James's daughter 
 revived, and she rejoiced at her misfortune ; 
 in fact, her bad heart had gained the ascen- 
 dency. The countess, seeing Mary's basket 
 upon the sideboard, had said to Juliette, 
 " Take away that basket, that I may never 
 have it before my eyes. It arouses in me re- 
 collections so painful, that I cannot behold it 
 but with grief." Juliette had taken it, and 
 was going away with it under her arm 
 " Stop," said she, "here's your present, you 
 can take it again ; my mistress wishes nothing 
 from such people as you. Your glory has 
 pas^Al away with the flowers for which you 
 were so well paid, and it is a great pleasure 
 for me to give you your packages." 
 
 She threw the basket at Mary's feet, re- 
 entered the castle with a scornful smile, and 
 shut the door with great violence after her.
 
 OF FLOWERS. 55 
 
 Mary took the basket in silence, with tears in 
 her eyes, and continued her way. Her father 
 had not even a cane to support his tottering 
 steps. Mary possessed nothing but the bas- 
 ket. She turned more than a hundred times, 
 her eyes wet with tears, towards her paternal 
 roof, until the roof, the castle, and even the 
 steeple of the church were hidden by a hill 
 covered with trees, and disappeared from her 
 sight. When the officer had conducted them 
 to the limits of the county, considerably ad- 
 vanced in the forest, the old man, overwhelm- 
 ed with anxiety and grief, seated himself upon 
 the moss under the shade of an aged oak. 
 " Come, my daughter," said he, and as he 
 spoke he took Mary in his arms, joined her 
 hands in his, and raising them to heaven, said, 
 " before we go on, let us thank God, who has 
 taken us from a narrow and obscure prison, 
 and who allows us to enjoy freely the sight 
 of heaven and the freshness of the air that 
 God who has saved our lives, and who has 
 returned you, my dear child, to the embraces 
 of your father." The aged man then fell on 
 his knees, and with a deep gratitude of heart, 
 commended them both to the protection of 
 their heavenly Father. After they had prayed 
 thus together (for Mary repeated from the 
 bottom of her heart every word which her 
 father had uttered), they felt a wonderful con- 
 solation ; and a feeling of courage and ex-
 
 56 THE BASKET 
 
 traordinary joy was shed over their hearts. 
 At that moment God's providence began to 
 favour them. Anthony, an old huntsman 
 with whom James had been in service when * 
 he accompanied the count in his travels, had 
 set out before daybreak to hunt a stag. " God 
 'bless you, James," said he ; " it does me good 
 to hear your voice : I am not then mistaken, 
 it is true that they have banished you, but it 
 is hard to see oneself obliged in one's old 
 days to quit one's country." 
 
 " As far as the arch of heaven extends," 
 answered James, " the earth is the Lord's, 
 and everywhere the watchful kindness of the 
 Lord is upon us. Our country is in heaven." 
 " Tell me," answered the huntsman, in an 
 accent of pity, "have they banished you just 
 as you are, without giving you the necessary 
 clothing for such a journey ?" " He who 
 clothes the flowers of the field will know 
 how to provide for us also," answered James. 
 " Even so you are supplied at least with 
 money ?" said the kind-hearted huntsman. 
 " We have a good conscience, and with that 
 we are richer than if the stone upon which 
 I sit/vvas gold. My father was a basket- 
 maker, and he taught me his trade besides 
 that of gardening, in order that during the 
 winter I might have a useful occupation. 
 This has done more for me and has provided- 
 better for my future prosperity than if he had
 
 OFFLOWERS. 57 
 
 left me three thousand crowns. A good 
 conscience, health of body, and an honourable 
 trade, are the best and surest fortune that we 
 can have on earth." " God be praised," an- 
 swered the huntsman, " that you can bear 
 your misfortunes so well. I am forced to 
 confess that you are right. It seems to me 
 that you have yet a good resource in garden- 
 ing ; but where will you go to get employ- 
 ment ?" " Very far," answered James, 
 " where we are not known, where God will 
 conduct us." " James," said the huntsman, 
 " take this knotty cane : I supplied myself 
 with it to assist me in climbing up the moun- 
 tain, but I can get another and here," con- 
 tinued he, drawing from his pocket a little 
 leather purse, " in it is some money, that I 
 received in payment for some wood in the 
 hamlet where I passed the night." 
 
 " The cane I accept, and I will keep it in 
 remembrance of a generous man, but as for 
 the money, it is impossible for me to accept 
 it : it is a payment for wood, and it belongs to 
 the count." " Good old James," said he, 
 " do not trouble yourself about that, the count 
 has already received his money. Some years 
 past a poor old man who had lost his cow 
 could not pay for the wood which he had 
 bought. I advanced him the sum, and thought 
 no more of it. Now he has extricated him- 
 self from his difficulties, and yesterday, at the
 
 58 THE BASKET 
 
 moment when I least expected it, he returned 
 it to me with thanks it is truly a present 
 which God sends you." " Well," said he, 4 
 * I accept it, and may God return it to you. 
 See, Mary, with what goodness God provides 
 for us even in the commencement of our 
 dreary banishment. We have not as yet 
 passed the limits of the county, and see He 
 sends us our good old friend, who has offered 
 me a travelling cane and who has given us 
 money. I had not time to quit this seat be- 
 fore Heaven has heard my prayer. So, my 
 daughter, courage ; God will watch over us." 
 The old huntsman melted into tears, then 
 took leave of them. " Farewell, honest 
 James," said he, " farewell, good Mary," ex- 
 tending his hand to both, " I always thought 
 you innocent, and think so still. Do not de- 
 spair. Do not let your probity fail you ; yes ! 
 yes ! whosoever does well, and has confi- 
 dence in God, may calculate on divine pro- 
 tection. May God be with you." The 
 huntsman left them, and bent his steps to- 
 wards Eichbourg. James got up, took his 
 daughter by the hand, and they continued 
 their way across the forest, not knowing at 
 what spot they would stop for they had 
 now no friend but God.
 
 OF FLOWERS. 59 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 James and Mary compelled to beg, but at length find 
 shelter. 
 
 MARY and her father still continued their 
 painful journey, and had already walked more 
 than twenty miles without being able to find a 
 night's lodging. The little money which they 
 had was nearly exhausted, and they knew not 
 where to obtain subsistence. It cost them a 
 great trial to solicit charity, but they were 
 obliged to submit to it. They presented 
 themselves before a great number of doors, 
 but they met with scarcely any thing but re- 
 pulses, accompanied by abuse. Sometimes 
 they could only get a little piece of dry bread, 
 and some water from the nearest fountain. 
 Sometimes, indeed, they received a little soup 
 or some greens, and here and there some re- 
 mains of meat or pastry. After having passed 
 several days in this manner, they were very 
 glad to be allowed to sleep in a barn. 
 
 One day the road appeared endless, as they 
 travelled between hills and mountains covered 
 with trees, and they had walked a long time 
 without seeing any village, when the old man 
 began to feel very weak. He fell, pale and. 
 speechless, at the foot of a hill covered with 
 pines, on a heap of dried leaves. Mary was 
 overcome with fear and anxiety, and over-
 
 60 THEBASRET 
 
 whelmed with grief. In vain did she seek a lit- 
 tle fresh water in the neighbourhood, she could 
 not find the least drop ; in vain did she cry for 
 assistance, the echo alone answered her. On* 
 whatever side she looked, no house was to 
 be seen. Although almost worn out with 
 fatigue, she ran to the top of the hill in hopes 
 of having a better view of the surrounding 
 country. At last she discovered behind the 
 hill, and quite at its foot, a cottage, surrounded 
 by rich fields, and green meadows, and com- 
 pletely shut in by the forest. She ran down, 
 and arrived quite out of breath at this hut. 
 With tears in her eyes, she asked assistance 
 in a broken voice. In God's providence both 
 the peasant and his wife, who were advanced 
 in years, were kind-hearted people. The 
 paleness, and tears, and agony of the poor 
 girl touched their sensibility. " Put a horse 
 to the little wagon," said the farmer's wife to 
 her husband, " we will bring this sick old 
 man here." The farmer went out to get his 
 horse and to harness it ; and his wife took 
 two mattresses, an earthen pitcher of fresh 
 water, and a bottle of vinegar. As soon as 
 Mary knew that the wagon would be obliged 
 to go round the hill, and that it was a good 
 half hour's ride, she went before with the 
 water and vinegar the same path by which 
 she had come, and by this means arrived 
 sooner where she had left her father. He had
 
 OF FLOWERS. 61 
 
 recovered a little, and was sitting at the foot 
 of a pine tree, and it was with great joy that 
 he saw the return of his daughter, whose ab- 
 sence had caused him some anxiety. As soon 
 as the farmer and his wife arrived, they placed 
 him in the wagon, and carried him to the 
 farm, where they gave him a neat little room, 
 a closet, and a kitchen which were then unoc- 
 cupied. The farmer's wife made him a nice 
 bed, and a bench was sufficient for Mary, who 
 would not quit her father's pillow. The in- 
 disposition of James was but a weakness oc- 
 casioned by bad food, bad rest, and the fatigue 
 of the journey. The good farmer's wife 
 spared nothing to relieve the sick man, and 
 even sacrificed some of their usual gratifica- 
 tions. These kind people had been in the 
 habit of going every year to a fair in the neigh- 
 bouring village, but they agreed this time to 
 remain at home, and to employ the money 
 which they would have spent in procuring 
 medicines and delicacies for the invalid. Mary 
 thanked them with tears in her eyes. " Oh ! 
 then," said she. "there are kind people every- 
 where, and it is often in the most unlikely 
 places that we find the most compassionate 
 hearts." As the old man grew better, Mary 
 was constantly seated beside her father's bed ; 
 but she did not sit there idle she had not 
 her match for knitting and sewing, and in 
 these employments she occupied herself with 
 F
 
 62 THE BASKET 
 
 great industry for the farmer's household. 
 She did not give herself a moment's rest. 
 The farmer's wife was enchanted with her 
 taste for work, and her modest and reserved* 
 demeanour. By the great care which they 
 had taken of James, and for the excellent 
 food which they had given him, he was so 
 far restored as to be able to sit up, and as 
 idleness had always been insupportable to 
 him, he began again to resume his basket- 
 making. Mary, as before, gathered for him 
 branches of willow and hazel twigs, and his 
 first production was a pretty little convenient 
 basket, which he offered to the farmer's wife 
 as a token of gratitude. 
 
 He had exactly guessed her taste. The 
 basket was elegant but strong and solid ; 
 branches of willow, stained with deep red and 
 interwoven in the cover, formed the initials of 
 the farmer's wife, and the date. The border 
 was formed of green, brown, and yellow 
 branches, representing a cottage thatched 
 with straw, on each side of which was a pine 
 tree. This pretty basket was the admiration 
 of the whole house. The farmer's wife re- 
 ceived the present with great joy, and the 
 allusion made to her farm, which was called 
 the " Pine Cottage," gave her peculiar plea- 
 sure. When James felt himself quite reco- 
 vered, he said to his hosts, " We have beeft 
 long enough a burden to you it is time I
 
 OF FLOWERS. 63 
 
 should go and seek my fortune elsewhere." 
 " What is the matter with you, my good 
 James ?" said the farmer, taking him by the 
 hand. " I hope we have not offended you. 
 Why then would you wish to leave us ? The 
 year is already very far advanced. Do you not 
 see the leaves on the trees, how yellow they are 
 turning ? Winter is at our doors. Do you 
 wish to be sick again ?" James assured them 
 he had no other motive for leaving them than 
 the fear of being troublesome. 
 
 " Troublesome, indeed," said the farmer, 
 " don't distress yourself about that in the 
 little room where you are, you cannot incom- 
 mode us in any way, and you gain enough to 
 supply your wants." " Yes, yes," added the 
 farmer's wife, " Mary alone earns enough 
 with her needle and her knitting, and you, 
 James, if you wish to continue to exercise 
 the trade of basket-maker, be easy. Not 
 long since, when I went to the pine mill, I 
 took with me your pretty basket. All the 
 countrywomen that were there wished to have 
 one like it. I will undertake to procure cus- 
 tomers. You will not soon be in want of 
 work." 
 
 James and Mary consented to remain, and 
 their hosts expressed a sincere pleasure at this 
 determination.
 
 64 THE BASKET 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The happy Life of Mary in the Pine Cottage. 
 
 JAMES and Mary then fixed themselves in 
 their habitation, their rooms furnished in the 
 most simple style, and only with what was 
 necessary. Mary thought herself very happy 
 in being again able to prepare the repasts of 
 her father, and they led together a life of con- 
 tentment. While James was making baskets, 
 and Mary was occupied with knitting and 
 sewing, they amused each other with familiar 
 conversation. Sometimes they spent their 
 evening in the front room, and it was with 
 great pleasure that their hosts, with the other 
 inmates of the house, listened to the judicious 
 reflections and instructive recitals of father 
 James, as they called him. Winter, with all 
 its severity, passed with them in the most 
 agreeable manner. Quite near their house 
 was a large garden, which was not the best 
 kept in the world ; the farmer and his wife had 
 too much .to do in the field to give to gardening 
 the necessary time, and besides it was an art 
 with which they were not familiar. James 
 undertook to make of it a pretty flower garden. 
 
 He had made his preparations during the 
 autumn, and scarcely had the warmth of 
 spring dissipated the winter's snow when he 
 began his work, assisted by Mary, and they
 
 
 OFFLOWERS. 65 
 
 were employed from morning until quite late 
 in the evening. The garden was divided into 
 compartments ; the beds planted with all sorts 
 of vegetables, and bordered with gravel-walks. 
 Mary had no rest until her father brought 
 from the village (where he was in the habit 
 of buying the seeds of vegetables) rose-trees, 
 tulip and lily-roots, and various kinds of gar- 
 den shrubbery. She cultivated the most beauti- 
 ful flowers, and among them were some which 
 had never been seen in this deserted and iso- 
 lated place. The garden soon exhibited such 
 a burst of verdure and richness, that the valley, 
 until now overgrown with dark forest trees, 
 assumed quite a smiling appearance. The 
 neighbouring orchard also appeared to thrive 
 much better under James's hand, and brought 
 forth fruit in greater abundance. 
 
 The blessing of Heaven was upon every 
 thing he undertook. The old gardener had 
 regained his good humour ; he began again to 
 make his remarks on the flowers, but without 
 recurring to his old observations, he had al- 
 ways something new to say. During the first 
 spring-days Mary had sought for violets along 
 the thicket which bordered their rustic ground. 
 She wished, as usual, to offer the first bunch 
 of them to her father. At last she found 
 some beautiful ones which had a delightful 
 perfume, and ran, transported with joy, to pre- 
 sent them to him. " Very well," said her
 
 66 THE BASKET 
 
 father, " seek and ye shall find ; but listen," 
 continued he, "it is to be remarked that these 
 charming flowers, these beautiful flowers,, 
 delight to grow among brambles, and it is 
 here that we can find a lesson for ourselves. 
 Who would have thought that in coming to this 
 dark valley, all covered with woods, and this 
 thatched cottage, that we should here find 
 happiness ? Well, so it is, there is no situa- 
 tion in life so thorny but that we may therein 
 discover a peaceful happiness hid among the 
 thorns. Have always, my child, a firm trust 
 in God, and to whatever adversity you may 
 be exposed, inward peace will never forsake 
 you." One day the wife of one of the vil- 
 lagers came from the city to buy some flax of 
 the farmer, and brought her little boy with 
 her. While she was engaged in examining 
 the flax, in choosing and bargaining, the child, 
 having found the garden gate open, had gone 
 in, and began immediately to plunder a full 
 blown rose-bush, but he scratched himself 
 terribly with the thorns. The mother and the 
 farmer's wife ran to him as soon as they heard 
 his cries. James and Mary ran also. The 
 child, with his little hands all bloody, exclaim- 
 ed against the rose-bush for having deceiv- 
 ed him by its pretty flowers. " It is some- 
 times thus with us also," said James, " big 
 children. There is no pleasure which has not 
 its thorns as well as this rose. W r e run to-
 
 OF FLOWERS. 67 
 
 wards it as if to seize it with both hands. 
 One is led away by a taste for dancing or for 
 play. Another by a taste for drink, or other 
 vices still more shameful. Then we begin to 
 weep and lament, and to detest pleasure. Do 
 not let us then be foolishly dazzled by the 
 show of fine roses. Man is endowed with a 
 soul to save ; it is not then necessary that we 
 should blindly abandon ourselves to our pro- 
 pensities. We ought, without ceasing, to use 
 all diligence to gain eternal life." 
 
 One beautiful morning which succeeded a 
 two days' rain, Mary and her father went into 
 the garden, and found the first lilies in bloom, 
 diffusing all their charms and all their magni- 
 ficence in the rays of the rising sun. Mary 
 called all the people of the house, who for a 
 long time were curious to see the lilies in 
 bloom. ' They were in an ecstasy of admira- 
 tion. " What purity ! what whiteness ! such 
 neatness entirely without blemish, not a spot !" 
 " No, not one," said James, agitated, * and 
 could it please Heaven that the consciences of 
 men were as exempt, it would be a pleasing 
 sight for God and angels. A pure heart only 
 can claim connexion with heaven. How 
 straight is the stem ; how gracefully and nobly 
 it raises itself, as a finger that points to hea- 
 ven," added James. " I am happy to see 
 this flower in the garden. There ought not 
 to be a garden in the country where the lily
 
 68 THE BASKET 
 
 is not found. Inclined as we are continually 
 to lean towards earth, we are prompted to for- 
 get heaven. The lily, which is so upright, . 
 seems to teach us, that in the midst of our 
 troubles and labours, we should raise our 
 thoughts towards the celestial kingdom, and 
 aspire to something better than the produc- 
 tions of earth. Every plant," continued he, 
 earnestly, and with a penetrating look, " even 
 the most delicate herbs have a tendency to 
 raise themselves, and if there are any too 
 weak for self support, as are these beans, and 
 this hop which we see in the midst of this 
 hedge, it entwines itself and clambers around 
 this pole. It is unworthy of man that he 
 alone in his desires and his hopes should 
 wish to grovel for ever in the earth." 
 
 James was one day employed in placing 
 young plants in a new-made bed, Mary was 
 weeding at a little distance from him. " This 
 double labour," said the father, " should be 
 the only occupation of all our life. Our 
 heart is a garden which the good God has 
 given us to cultivate. It is necessary that we 
 should unceasingly apply ourselves to the cul- 
 tivation of the good and the extraction of the 
 evil which might there take root. Otherwise 
 it is but uncultivated ground. But let us 
 scrupulously fulfil these two duties, and to 
 this end let us implore the assistance and 
 blessing of that God who makes the sun to
 
 OF FLOWERS. 69 
 
 shine, the dew and rain to fall, the plants to 
 grow, and the fruit to ripen. Then will our 
 hearts be a most delicious garden, and we 
 shall possess a paradise within ourselves." It 
 was thus that James and Mary led an active 
 and industrious life, mingling their instructive 
 conversations with their innocent pleasures. 
 Three springs and three summers had glided 
 away, and the happy days they had spent at 
 the Pine Cottage had almost caused them to 
 forget their past misfortunes. But at the re- 
 turn of autumn they saw the chrisanthemums 
 displaying their red and blue flowers, the last 
 ornaments of the garden. The leaves of the 
 trees were clothed in variegated shades, ajid 
 the garden was preparing for repose during 
 the winter. James felt sensibly the diminu- 
 tion of his strength, and felt more than once 
 very uncomfortable. He however concealed 
 his feelings from Mary, fearing to distress 
 her ; but all his observations on the flowers 
 were of a melancholy cast, and Mary, who 
 observed it, felt it from the bottom of her 
 heart. One day she observed a rose which 
 appeared to be waiting until autumn to bloom. 
 She wished to gather it, but the leaves of the 
 purplish flower fell off in her hand. " So it 
 is with man," said her father. '* In youth, 
 we resemble a rose newly opened, but our 
 life fades as the rose : scarcely is it matured 
 ere it is passed. Pride not yourself, my
 
 70 THE BASKET 
 
 dear child, upon the beauty of the body, it is 
 vain and fragile ; aspire to the beauty of the 
 soul, and piety which will never wither." One . 
 day, towards evening, James ascended a ladder 
 to gather some apples. He handed them to 
 Mary, who arranged them in a basket. " How 
 cold," said he, " this autumn wind is which 
 whistles over this stubble field ; how it plays 
 with the yellow leaves and my white hairs. 
 I am in my autumn, my dear Mary, and soon 
 you will be too. Try to resemble this excel- 
 lent tree, which produces fruit so excellent, 
 and in so great abundance. Try to please 
 the Master of this great garden, which is 
 called the world." Mary was sowing seed 
 for the following spring. " One day will 
 come," said the old man, " when they will 
 put us in the ground as you are putting those 
 seeds ; it will cover us. But console your- 
 self, my dear Mary, soon the grain is en- 
 veloped in the earth : when it is animated, if 
 I may so speak, it sprouts from the earth in 
 the form of a beautiful flower, and raises it- 
 self triumphantly from the place where it 
 was buried. We also shall rise one day from 
 our tombs with splendour and magnificence. 
 Think of the future, my dear Mary, when 
 you will follow me to the tomb. In the 
 flowers which you will undoubtedly plant on 
 my tomb, see the image of the resurrection 
 and immortal life."
 
 
 OF FLOWERS. 71 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The Father of Mary is taken sick. 
 
 AT the beginning of the winter, which 
 threatened to be very severe, and which had 
 already covered the mountain and valley with 
 a very deep snow, old father James was 
 taken sick. Mary begged him to allow the 
 physician of the neighbouring village to come 
 and see him ; and immediately the farmer, 
 who was always on the alert, went for him in 
 a sleigh. The physician wrote his prescrip- 
 tion, and Mary walked with him as far as the 
 door to ask him if he had any hope of her fa- 
 ther's recovery. The physician answered 
 that he was in no immediate danger, but that 
 his disease would become a consumption, and 
 that, especially at his age, he could not be ex- 
 pected to recover. At this intelligence Mary 
 nearly fainted. She wept, she sobbed, and 
 could hardly be comforted. However, she 
 wiped her tears, and endeavoured to appear 
 calm before she went to her father, for fear of 
 distressing him. Mary attended her father 
 with all the care that a good daughter could 
 bestow on a most beloved parent. She could 
 read in his eyes all that he wanted. She 
 watched whole nights near his bed. Did any 
 wish to relieve her for fear that she herself 
 would be sick, and if she, after much persua-
 
 72 THE BASKET 
 
 sion, consented to rest for a few moments on 
 her bench, it happened very rarely that she 
 ever closed her eyes. If her father coughed, 
 she trembled ; if he made the least stir, she ' 
 immediately approached him softly and on 
 tip-toe to know how he was. She prepared 
 and brought to him, with the most delicate 
 attention, the food which best suited his situa- 
 tion. She arranged his -pillow, read to him, 
 and prayed with him continually. Often 
 when he dozed for a little while, she would 
 stand by his bed with her hands clasped and 
 her tearful eyes raised to heaven. 
 
 Mary had a little money which she had 
 saved from the work of her own hands. It 
 was the little she had earned in spending very 
 often half the night in sewing and knitting. 
 This she made use of to the very last penny 
 in procuring for her father all that she thought 
 would be of any service. The pious old 
 man, although he felt himself occasionally a 
 little stronger, was only too sure that he was 
 on his death-bed. But he w r as calm and 
 perfectly resigned. He spoke of his ap- 
 proaching death with the greatest serenity. 
 " Ah !" said Mary, crying bitterly, " do not 
 speak thus, my dear father. I cannot bear the 
 thought. What will become of me ? Alas ! 
 your poor Mary will no longer have any one 
 upon earth." " Do not cry, my dear child, 1 ' 
 said her father, holding out his hand to her.
 
 
 OF FLOWERS. 73 
 
 ** You have a kind Father in heaven. He 
 will never forsake you, although your earthly 
 father be taken away from you. I do not feel 
 the least anxious about the manner in which you 
 will gain a livelihood ; no, it is what distresses 
 me the least. The birds easily find their food. 
 Will you not then find enough to nourish you ? 
 God provides for the smallest sparrow; why 
 will he not also provide for you ? It is 
 quite another thing which distresses me," 
 continued he ; " it is that you will be left in a 
 wicked world. Alas ! my dear child, you do 
 not suspect the world of being half so wicked 
 or corrupted as it is, or of containing half so 
 many wicked people as it does. There will 
 be moments when you will feel inclined to do 
 evil, moments when you will allow yourself, 
 perhaps, to be persuaded, without much diffi- 
 culty, that sin is not so very wrong. Listen 
 to the advice which I now give you, and let 
 the last words of your dying father be for ever 
 deeply impressed on your heart. Forbid 
 every action, every speech, every thought for 
 which you would have to blush if your father 
 knew it. Soon my eyes will be for ever 
 closed. I will no longer be here to watch 
 over you. But remember you have in heaven 
 a father whose eye sees every thing, and reads 
 the bottom of your heart." After a little 
 while, when he hacf taken breath, he continued. 
 " You would not wish to afflict, by a bad ac- 
 G
 
 74 THE BASKET 
 
 tion, the father whom you have on earth ; how 
 much more then should you fear to offend 
 that Father who is in heaven ! Look at me 
 once more, Mary. Oh, if you ever feel the 
 least inclination to do wrong, think of my pale 
 face, and of the tears which wet my sunken 
 cheeks. Come to me, put your hand into 
 mine, cold and withered, which will soon fall 
 into the dust. Promise me never to forget 
 my words. In the hour of temptation, im- 
 agine you feel this cold hand which you now 
 hold on the border of the grave. Poor child, 
 you cannot*see without weeping my pale and 
 hollow cheeks. Ah ! know that every thing 
 passes away in this world. There was a time 
 when I too had the bloom of health, and the 
 fresh and vermilion tint which you now have. 
 The time will come when you too will be 
 stretched on your bed of death, pale and ema- 
 ciated as you now see me, if God does not 
 sooner take you to himself. The friends of 
 my youth have disappeared like the flowers 
 which have passed away with spring, and for 
 whose place you seek in vain, like the dew 
 which but for a moment sparkles on the 
 flowers, and is gone." The next day James, 
 believing that his end was near, though weak, 
 yet felt it his duty and delight to continue his 
 dying advice. " I have seen the world," 
 said he, " as well as other people, when I ac- 
 companied the Count in his travels. Was
 
 OF FLOWERS. 75 
 
 there any thing in the large cities superb or 
 magnificent, I went there. I spent whole 
 weeks in pleasure. Was there a brilliant as- 
 sembly, or a lively conversation, I saw and 
 heard all as well as my young master. I al- 
 ways had my share in the most exquisite 
 meals, and of the scarcest wines, and always 
 had more than I wished for. But all these 
 noisy pleasures left me with an empty heart. 
 I here protest solemnly, that a few moments 
 of peaceful contemplation and fervent prayer 
 under our arbour in Eichbourg, or under this 
 thatch that covers us now, gave me more real 
 joy than all even on my death-bed I repeat 
 it more than all the vain pleasures of this 
 world. Seek, then, your happiness in the love 
 and service of our blessed Saviour. You will 
 find him, and he will bless you. You know 
 very well, my dear child, that I have not 
 wanted for misfortunes in this life. Alas ! 
 when I lost your mother, my heart was for a 
 long time like a dry and barren garden, whose 
 soil, burnt by the heat of the sun, cracks open 
 and seems to sigh for rain ; it is thus that I 
 languished, thirsting for consolation ; at last I 
 found it in the Lord. Oh ! my child, there 
 will be days in your life when your heart also 
 will be like a dry and barren ground. But 
 do not feel distressed at it. The thirsty 
 ground calls not in vain for rain. God sends 
 the rain necessary for it. Seek your consola-
 
 76 THE BASKET 
 
 tion in the Lord. This consolation will re- 
 fresh your heart as a sweet rain refreshes the 
 thirsty earth. My dear child, let your con- 
 fidence in God be unshaken. There is no- 
 thing he will not do for those he loves. He 
 conducts us by grief to unmingled happiness. 
 Do you recollect, my good Mary, all the 
 grief which you felt when, after our painful 
 walk, I fell down with fatigue in the middle of 
 the road. Well, this accident was the means 
 which the Lord made use of to procure for us 
 the sweet rest which we have enjoyed for 
 three years with these good people. Without 
 this sickness we would either not have come 
 before their door, or they would not have been 
 touched with so much compassion. All the 
 pleasures which we have here tasted, all the 
 good which we have been enabled to do, all the 
 happy days which we have here spent, are so 
 many benefits which resulted from this sick- 
 ness. It is thus, my dear Mary, that in the 
 troubles of this life we can find proofs of the 
 divine goodness. If the liberal hand of the 
 Lord has scattered with flowers mountains and 
 valleys, forests and the banks of rivers, and 
 even muddy marshes, to give us everywhere 
 the opportunity of admiring his tenderness 
 and goodness, he has also imprinted on all the 
 events of our life evident traces of his great 
 wisdom, and of his compassionate love for 
 men, in order that an attentive mind may
 
 OF FLOWERS. 77 
 
 learn by them to love and adore Him. Every 
 one can observe them in his own life, if he is 
 capable of a little attention. Never have we 
 had more to suffer than when you were ac- 
 cused of a theft, when you were chained and 
 likely to be condemned to death when we 
 were together weeping and lamenting in pri- 
 son. Well, this evil trial has been a source 
 of great good to us. Yes, it seems that 
 now this benefit is visible ; when the young 
 countess distinguished you from the other 
 young girls, did you the honour to admit you 
 to her company, made you a present of a beau- 
 tiful gown, and wished you to be always near 
 her, no doubt you thought yourself very happy. 
 But it was to be feared that these honours, 
 these superfluities, these advantages would ren- 
 der you vain, trifling, fond of the things of this 
 world, and apt to forget God. The Lord then 
 consulted our interest only, when he changed 
 our situation, and made us unhappy. In mise- 
 ry, in poverty, in prison, we have lived near to 
 him ; he has conducted us far from the dissipa- 
 tions of this corrupt world into this rude coun- 
 try, where he has prepared for you a better 
 dwelling. You are here like a flower which 
 embellishes the most secret solitude, where it 
 has nothing to fear from the hand of man. It is 
 he, it is this good and faithful God, who wishes 
 to give a still more happy turn to the misfor- 
 tunes which you have suffered. Yes, I firmly 
 G 2
 
 78 THE BASKET 
 
 believe that he has answered my prayer yes, 
 he will one day show the world your inno- 
 cence. When this time will come I shall be- 
 no more ; but convinced as I am of your inno- 
 cence, I need not to see you justified in order 
 to die tranquilly. Yes, Mary, the pain which 
 you have suffered will yet be the means of 
 leading you to joy and happiness on earth, 
 though this kind of happiness is the least, and 
 to see that God's great design in afflicting us 
 was to prepare us for heaven, to which we can 
 arrive only through suffering and tribulation. 
 Thus in misfortune let not care trouble your 
 soul ; believe that God's tenderness watches 
 over you, and that his care will be sufficient 
 for you, in whatever place he chooses to con- 
 duct you, in whatever painful situation you may 
 be placed, say * it is the best place the most 
 advantageous situation for me, notwithstand- 
 ing all that I suffer.' Believe that it is exactly 
 the place to perfect your virtue, and for you 
 to do the will of your Saviour who died for 
 you." So much exertion caused the old man 
 to faint ; but after few hours he continued. 
 " A gardener assigns to each plant the spot he 
 judges the most suitable, and gives it that cul- 
 ture which he thinks will be the most proper 
 to make it prosper. In the same manner God 
 assigns to every believer that station in life 
 which suits him best, and in which he will 
 make the greatest progress in holiness. And
 
 OF FLOWERS. 79 
 
 thus, my dear Mary, as he has until now 
 turned to your advantage all your misfortunes, 
 he will also bless to you my last sickness and 
 death. My dear child, I cannot pronounce 
 the word death, without causing you to shed 
 a torrent of tears. Do not think that death is 
 so terrible. Let us once more speak as we 
 formerly did in our garden at Eichbourg. 
 You know what happens at the beginning of 
 spring ; small and weak plants sprout out to- 
 gether from narrow and moist beds : it is not 
 then supposed that they will become magnifi- 
 cent flowers or precious fruits, and indeed 
 they will bear neither fruits nor flowers if 
 they remain crowded in this narrow space ; 
 they will want room, and the gardener who 
 placed them there does not wish them to re- 
 main there and die. He wishes to transplant 
 them in an open space, where they may be re- 
 vived by the pure air, and exposed under the 
 azure of a beautiful sky, to the golden rays of 
 the sun. At last, watered by rain and dew, 
 they put forth leaves and shine in all their beau- 
 ty. It was always a pleasure to you when I 
 transplanted these young shoots, for you used 
 to say they crowded one another in the beds. 
 You were only satisfied when they were in an 
 open space now, you would say, ' they will 
 grow finely it appears to me that I see it 
 already.' My dear daughter, we are poor weak
 
 80 THE BASKET 
 
 plants ; the earth which we inhabit is a narrow 
 bed ; this is not our abode, here we are but mise- 
 rable vegetables ; but we are destined to be- 
 come something more magnificent ; that is the 
 reason why God transplants us into large and 
 superb gardens in a word, to heaven. Cease 
 your weeping, my dear child ; see how much 
 better I bear my prospect of departure. Oh ! 
 how I rejoice to go so soon to my Saviour ; 
 what a happiness to be delivered from this 
 body which has done so much evil in the 
 world, and to be with Christ for ever ! Dear 
 Mary, do you remember the great pleasure 
 we took in our garden on a beautiful spring 
 morning ? Heaven is compared to the most 
 beautiful of all gardens, where an eternal 
 spring for ever reigns : it is for this delightful 
 country that I am going to set out. Ah ! 
 continue to serve God, and we will there be 
 at last united. Here we have been together 
 only to suffer tribulations without number, we 
 have been separated only to weep and lament. 
 But there we shall remain together in the 
 midst of joy and beatitude, without the least 
 fear of separation. Mary, live always close to 
 God, and if you are reserved for a happy life 
 here below, let not these passing joys make 
 you forget the joys of eternity : then one 
 day your mother and I will meet our daughter 
 in heaven. Do not then weep, my dear
 
 OF FLOWERS. 81 
 
 child, but rather rejoice in the prospect of the 
 future." 
 
 It was thus that this good father attempted 
 to console his daughter, who was soon to be 
 left alone on the earth. It was thus that he 
 endeavoured, by his advice, to preserve her 
 from the corruptions of the world. Every 
 word was a good seed which fell on well pre- 
 pared ground. " I have caused you much 
 grief and many tears, my dear child. But 
 they are salutary tears. Seeds sown among 
 tears take root more easily and thrive much 
 better ; they are like grain which when sown 
 is watered by the soft showers of spring." 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Death of Mary's Father. 
 
 WHEN Mary found that her father could 
 not survive much longer, she went to Erlen- 
 brunn, the parish to which the Pine Cottage 
 belonged, and told the minister of the illness 
 of her father. This minister was an exem- 
 plary and pious man. He paid James a 
 number of visits, and had some of the most 
 edifying conversations with him, and failed 
 not to console Mary with something like fa- 
 therly affection. One afternoon he found that
 
 82 THE BASKET 
 
 the old man's debility sensibly increased. 
 James requested Mary to leave the room for 
 a moment, that he might converse alone with 
 the minister. He soon called her in again 
 and said, " My dear Mary, I have settled all 
 my worldly affairs, and am now ready to de- 
 part and be with Christ." Mary was dis- 
 tressed, and had great difficulty in restraining 
 her tears, for she saw that the fatal moment 
 was not far off. But she immediately reco- 
 vered herself, lest he should be distressed. 
 James spent the remainder of the day and 
 evening in silent prayer. He was in a state 
 of holy meditation, and spoke but very little. 
 The next day he received at the hands of the 
 minister the bread and wine, symbols of the 
 body and blood of Christ. Faith, love, and 
 hope of eternal life had made his venerable 
 countenance radiant with celestial happi- 
 ness. Tears of fervour ran down his cheeks. 
 Mary, on her knees beside his bed, trembled, 
 wept, and prayed. The farmer, his wife, 
 and all their household contemplated this 
 edifying scene with lively emotions. Their 
 hands were clasped, and you might see the 
 tears streaming from every eye. " Now," 
 said Mary, " I feel my heart soothed, and 
 am much consoled ; it is indeed true that 
 the religion of Jesus Christ affords us, at the 
 hour of death, celestial consolation." In the 
 mean time James felt his end rapidly ap-
 
 OFFLOWERS. 83 
 
 preaching. The farmer and his wife honoured 
 and cherished him as their best friend, and 
 blessed the hour that brought him to their 
 house. They tendered to him every possible 
 service ; and came frequently every day to 
 the door of his little chamber to know how 
 he was. And Mary was sure to ask them 
 each time if they did not think he would re- 
 cover. Once the farmer answered her, and 
 said, " Certainly he cannot survive the spring." 
 From that time Mary continually sat at her 
 little window, and trembling, watched the bud- 
 ding of her flowers in her garden. Until 
 now, the return of spring had always filled 
 her with joy, but now the leaves of the goose- 
 berry bushes and the budding of the flowers 
 filled her with sadness. The joyous chirp- 
 ing of the chaffinch overwhelmed her with 
 terror ; and when she saw the snow-drop and 
 primrose she was deeply affected. "Ah!" 
 said she, " every thing is renewed every 
 thing in nature smiles, and must my father 
 only die, and must there be for him alone no 
 hope ?" And then, checking herself, she raised 
 her eyes to heaven, and said, " No hope ! no, 
 no ! Jesus has said he shall not die. He is 
 only divested of this earthly tabernacle, and 
 it is only above that he commences really to 
 live." It gave the old man pleasure to hear 
 Mary read to him, she did it in so sweet.aftd
 
 84 THE BASKET 
 
 clear a voice. During the latter part of his 
 illness he wished to hear nothing better than 
 the last words of Jesus, and his last prayer. 
 Once during the night his daughter was sit- 
 ting beside his bed, the moon shed so much 
 light into the room that the light of the taper 
 was scarcely visible. "Mary," said the in- 
 valid, " read me once more that beautiful 
 prayer of our Saviour." She lighted a wax 
 light, and began to read. " Now," said he, 
 " give me the book, and light me a little." 
 Mary gave him the book and carried the light 
 nearer. " Now," said he, " this will be the 
 last prayer that I shall make for you." He 
 marked the passage with his finger, and 
 prayed in a trembling voice : " O Father, I 
 have not long to remain in this world. I am 
 going, I dare hope it, I am going to thee, my 
 Father. preserve this my child from sin, 
 for thy name's sake. While I have been on 
 earth, I have endeavoured in thy name to pre- 
 serve her from it. But, O Lord, I am now 
 going to thee. I do not ask thee to take her 
 to thee, but only to preserve her from harm. 
 Let thy holy truth support her thy word is 
 truth. Grant, O heavenly Father, that the 
 child which thou hast given me may be at 
 last admitted to the place where I hope to go, 
 through Jesus my Saviour. Amen." Mary, 
 who stood beside his bed bathed in tears, re- 
 peated as well as her sobs would let her,
 
 OF FLOWERS. 85 
 
 " Yes," continued he, " yes, my 
 dear daughter, there we will see Jesus in his 
 kingdom which he had from the beginning 
 of the world, and there we shall see each 
 other." 
 
 He again lay down on his pillow to rest a 
 little. He continued to hold the book in his 
 hand. It was the New Testament ; he had 
 bought it with the first money saved from the 
 purchase of his food, since he had left Eich- 
 bcurg. " Dear Mary," said he, some moments 
 afterwards, " I thank you again for all the ten- 
 derness which you have shown me since my 
 illness commenced, and which will be the last 
 I shall feel. You have faithfully observed the 
 fifth commandment. Trust in your heavenly 
 Father, Mary, and you will receive of him 
 your reward, poor and abandoned as I am 
 obliged to leave you in this world, for I can 
 give you nothing but my blessing and this 
 book. Be always pious and good, and this 
 blessing will not be without effect. The 
 blessing of a father, with confidence in the 
 Lord, is better for a virtuous child than the 
 richest inheritance. Take this book, and let 
 it be a remembrance of thy father. It cost 
 me, it is true, but a few shillings, but let it 
 be faithfully read, the precepts therein con- 
 tained put in practice, and then I shall have 
 left you the richest treasure. If I had left 
 you as many pieces of gold as the spring 
 H
 
 86 THE BASKET 
 
 produces leaves and flowers, with all that 
 money you could not buy any thing better ; 
 for this book contains the word of God. Read 
 in it every morning no matter what work 
 you have to do, time should always be found 
 for that read at least one passage preserve 
 it and meditate upon it in thy heart during the 
 day. If you discover any obscurity, pray for 
 the Holy Spirit to enlighten you as I have 
 always practised ; what is of most import- 
 ance in this book may be understood by 
 everybody, and it is to that you must attach 
 yourself, and it is that you must practice, and 
 it contains that which fails not to draw down 
 upon you the blessing of heaven. This pas- 
 sage alone, * Consider the lilies of the field,' 
 has afforded me more lessons of wisdom than 
 all the books which I read in my youth, and 
 besides that, it has been the source to me of 
 a thousand pleasures, and my innumerable 
 afflictions would have been characterized by 
 an unceasing anxiety, I should have been dis- 
 couraged and dejected, if this passage had not 
 afforded a serene and submissive heart." 
 
 About three o'clock the next morning, 
 James faintly said, " I feel very ill open the 
 window a little." Mary opened it, the moon 
 had disappeared ; but the sky covered with 
 stars presented a magnificent spectacle. "See 
 how beautiful the sky appears," said the sick 
 man, " What are the flowers of earth when
 
 OF FLOWERS. 87 
 
 compared with these stars, whose beauty 
 suffers no diminution ; it is there I am 
 now going what joy ! Come, Lord Jesus 
 come quickly." On saying these words, 
 he fell upon his bed, and died the death of 
 a Christian. Mary thought he had only 
 fainted, for she had never seen any one die, 
 and did not think he was so near his end ; 
 nevertheless, in her fright she awoke all the 
 family ; they ran to the bed of James, and 
 there she heard them declare he was dead. 
 She threw herself upon the body of her fa- 
 ther, embraced it, and wept her lips fas- 
 tened upon his wan and pale visage. The 
 tears of the daughter mingled with the cold 
 sweat of the father that had ceased to be. 
 " Oh, my father my good father," said she, 
 " Jiow shall I acquit myself of all the obliga- 
 tions I am under. Alas ! I cannot I can 
 only thank you for all the words, for all the 
 good advice that I received from that mouth, 
 those lips, now sealed in death. It is with 
 gratitude that I now kiss your hand, now cold 
 and stiff, that hand which has bestowed on 
 me so many benefits, and which has laboured 
 so much for my good. Oh ! if my soul 
 could at the same moment leave its tenement 
 of clay if it could follow you, my father, 
 into the heavenly kingdom. Oh ! * let me 
 die the death of the righteous.' It is certain 
 that this life is nothing really nothing. What
 
 88 THE BASKET 
 
 happiness must there be in heaven and in 
 everlasting life ! That is now my only con- 
 solation." 
 
 This was a heart-rending scene. At lasf 
 the farmer's wife, after persuading Mary for 
 some time, prevailed upon her to lay down. 
 Nothing would induce Mary during the fol- 
 lowing day to leave the body of her father. 
 She read, wept, and prayed until morning. 
 Before the coffin-lid was nailed down, Mary 
 took one more look at her father. " Alas !" 
 said she, " it is the last time that I shall ever 
 behold your venerable face. How beautiful 
 it was when you smiled, and it shone with 
 the glory into which you were going to enter. 
 Farewell farewell, my father," cried she, 
 sobbing aloud. " May your mortal remains 
 rest peaceably in the bosom of the earth, now 
 while the angels of the Lord are, as I hope, 
 bearing your soul to eternal rest." She took 
 a branch of rosemary, of primrose as yellow 
 as gold, and violets of a deep blue. She made 
 a bouquet of them and placed them on the 
 bosom of her father, who during his life had 
 sown and cultivated so many flowers. " May 
 these flowers, the first-fruits of the earth, be," 
 said she, " an image of your future resurrection ; 
 and this rosemary, always green, the symbol 
 of the pious recollection that will be for ever 
 engraven on my heart." When they began' 
 to nail down the coffin-lid, every stroke of the
 
 OF FLOWERS. 89 
 
 hammer caused her so much emotion that she 
 almost fainted. The farmer's wife led her 
 into the next room, and begged her to lie on 
 the bed to recover herself. After the de- 
 parture of the funeral, Mary, dressed in a suit 
 of mourning, which one of the girls of the 
 village had given her, followed close to the 
 body of her father. She was as pale as death, 
 and everyone pitied this poor forsaken orphan, 
 who now had neither father nor mother. As 
 Mary's father was a stranger at Erlenbrunn, 
 they dug a grave for him in the corner of the ce- 
 metery beside the wall. Beside this wall were 
 two large pine trees which shaded the tomb. 
 The curate preached a touching funeral sermon 
 in respect for the deceased. He had taken for 
 his text these words of Jesus : " Except a corn 
 of wheat fall into thegroundand die, it abideth 
 alone, but if it die it bringeth forth much fruit." 
 John xii. 24. He spoke of James's patience, 
 and of the resignation with which he bore all 
 the misfortunes which had fallen to his lot, and 
 the good example he had set for those who 
 knew him. He offered consolations to the 
 orphan, who was overwhelmed with grief. 
 He thanked, in the name of the deceased, 
 the farmer and his wife, who had so well 
 proved to Mary and her father the kindness 
 of their hearts. In short, he begged them to 
 be father and mother to Mary, who had no 
 longer any parents. Whenever Mary attend- 
 H2
 
 90 THEBASKET 
 
 ed divine service at Erlenbrunn, she never 
 failed to visit the tomb. She went also every 
 Sunday evening, when she had opportunity, to. 
 visit the tomb of her father, and to weep over 
 his cherished remains. " Nowhere," would 
 she say, " have I prayed with so much fervour 
 as here at my father's grave. Here the whole 
 world is nothing to me. I feel that we belong 
 to a better world. My heart sighs for that coun- 
 try, because I daily feel the evil of the one in 
 which I now am." She never left the grave 
 without having made good resolutions to de- 
 spise the pleasures of the world, and to live 
 only to her God. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Mary experiences fresh Trials. 
 
 FROM the time of her father's death Mary 
 was always sad. The flowers had in her 
 eyes lost all their beauty ; and the pines near 
 the farm looked as though they were clothed 
 in black. Time, it is true, moderated her 
 grief, but soon she had new trials to undergo. 
 Great changes had taken place in the pine 
 farm since the death of her father. The farm- 
 er had given the farm to his only son, a man. 
 of a good temper and amiable disposition, but 
 unhappy in the choice of his wife, whom he
 
 O F FLOWERS. 91 
 
 had married a short time before. She was 
 called handsome, and was possessed of con- 
 siderable property. But she was vain of her 
 beauty, and cared for nothing but gain : pride 
 and avarice had by degrees imprinted on 
 her features an expression of harshness so 
 striking, that with all her beauty her looks 
 were repulsive. She violently opposed reli- 
 gion, and not having the wholesome restraints 
 of the gospel, if she knew that any thing 
 would give her father and mother pleasure, 
 she did just the contrary ; and if she ever 
 gave the food which was their due according 
 to the contract, it was always with a bad grace 
 and sordid parsimony. She sought continually 
 to mortify them, and made their lives com- 
 pletely miserable. These good people retired 
 into the little back chamber, and they seldom 
 appeared in the front room. The young 
 husband was no longer at his ease ; this 
 wicked woman overwhelmed him with the 
 grossest abuse, and cast into his teeth, a hun- 
 dred times a day, the money she had brought 
 him. If he would not spend the day in 
 quarrelling and disputing, he was obliged to 
 suffer in silence. She would never quietly 
 allow him to visit h ; s parents, for fear, as she 
 said, he would give them something secretly. 
 In the evening, after he had finished his work, 
 he scarcely dared go near them. He found
 
 92 THE BASKET 
 
 them almost always seated in sadness beside 
 each other on the same bench : he would take 
 a seat by them, and complain of his hard lot. 
 " Well,'' said the old father, " so it is. You 
 suffered yourself to be dazzled by the bril- 
 liancy of her gold, and by her rosy cheeks ; 
 I yielded too easily to your wishes, and thus 
 we are all punished. We should have thought 
 of the good advice of old James : he was an 
 experienced man, and never approved of this 
 match when it was talked of during his life. 
 I still remember every word he said on the 
 subject, and I have thought of it more than a 
 thousand times. Do you remember," said 
 he to his wife, " of having one day said, 
 ' But ten thousand florins, however, make a 
 handsome sum !' * A handsome sum,' said 
 James * no, for the flowers you see in your 
 garden are a thousand times more beautiful. 
 Perhaps you meant to say it is al:*ge and 
 heavy sum. I will acknowledge that. He 
 must have good shoulders who can bear it 
 without being bowed down to the earth, and 
 without becoming a poor wretch, unable to 
 raise his head to heaven. Why then wish for 
 so much money ? You have never wanted 
 any thing; so far from it, you have always had 
 more than sufficient. Believe me, too much 
 money engenders arrogance. Rain is a use- 
 ful and necessary thing ; but when U o much'
 
 OF FLOWERS. 93 
 
 falls, there is danger of its destroying the most 
 healthy plants of the garden.' 
 
 " These are exactly the words of the old 
 friend we have lost, and I think I still hear 
 him. And you, my son, once said to him, 
 ' She has a charming person, and is beautiful 
 and fresh as a rose.' Flowers,' answered 
 the wise old man, * have not beauty only, 
 they are good and pretty at the same time. 
 They make us many rich presents ; the bee ex- 
 tracts from them pure wax and delicious honey. 
 Without piety, a beautiful exterior is but a 
 rose upon paper, a miserable trifle, without life 
 and without perfume, which produces neither 
 wax nor honey.' Such were the reflections 
 which James frankly made before us. We 
 would not listen to him now we know how 
 to appreciate his advice. That which ap- 
 peared to us then so great a happiness,, is 
 now to us the height of misfortune. God 
 give us the grace to bear our misfortunes 
 with patience." 
 
 It was thus that they used to talk together. 
 Poor Mary had also much to suffer. The 
 old people were obliged to occupy the back 
 room. She therefore gave up her place to 
 them. The young farmer's wife had two 
 rooms empty, but through wickedness she 
 gave Mary the most miserable apartment in 
 the house ; ill-treated her in every possible 
 way, and loaded her with abuse. There was
 
 94 THE BASKET 
 
 nothing but fault-finding from morning till 
 night. Mary did not work enough, and did 
 not know how to do any thing as it ought to 
 be done. It was very plainly to be seen by ' 
 the poor orphan that she was despised, and a 
 trouble to the house. The old man and 
 his wife were not in a situation to offer her 
 any consolation ; they had enough to do with 
 their own griefs. She thought often of going 
 away, but where to go was the question. She 
 asked the minister's advice. " My dear 
 Mary," said the wise minister, " to remain 
 any longer at the Pine Farm, is a thing im- 
 possible. Your father gave you an excellent 
 education, and taught you all that was ne- 
 cessary for a village housekeeper. But at the 
 Pine Farm they require more than the work of 
 a robust man-servant. They put upon you la- 
 bour which is beyond your strength, and which 
 does not suit you. However, I do not advise 
 you to leave there immediately, and to go and 
 seek your fortune at once. The best advice 
 I could give you would be, to remain where 
 you are for the present ; to work as much as 
 you can, and to wait patiently until the Lord 
 shall deliver you from the state of oppression 
 under which you sigh. The Saviour who 
 raised you to another condition is still able to 
 sustain you. I will endeavour to get you a 
 place in an honest and Christian family.- 
 ^ray, have confidence in God ; bear with this
 
 OF FLOWERS. 95 
 
 trial, and God will arrange it all." Mary 
 thanked him, and promised to follow his good 
 advice. There was no spot on earth that she 
 loved better than the tomb of her father. She 
 had planted a rose-tree there. " Alas !" said 
 she, while she planted the shrub, " if I could 
 remain here always, I would water you with 
 my tears, and you would soon be covered 
 with flowers and leaves." The rose-tree 
 was already green, and the buds began to 
 open their purple cups. " My father was 
 right," said Mary, " when he compared the 
 human life to a rose-tree. Sometimes it is 
 quite naked and stripped. It offers to the eye 
 nothing but thorns ; but wait a little, and the 
 season will again come when it shall be 
 decked anew in foliage, and robed in the 
 most beautiful flowers. This is now for me 
 the time of thorns, but God forbid that I 
 should be cast down by it. I believe your 
 word, best of fathers. Perhaps I may see 
 verified in my life your maxim : * Patience 
 produces roses.' "
 
 96 THE BASKET 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Mary turned away from the Pine Cottage. 
 
 IN the midst of all Mary's troubles, the 25th 
 of July arrived, the anniversary of her father's 
 birth-day. Until then, it had always been to 
 her a day of joy, but this time she hailed 
 with tears the rising of the sun, whose gilded 
 rays illumined her chamber. Previously she 
 had always prepared for this day something 
 which she knew would give her father plea- 
 sure ; but now he was gone. The country- 
 people in the neighbourhood were in the habit 
 of ornamenting with flowers the tombs of their 
 dearest friends, particularly at the time of such 
 anniversaries. They had often entreated Mary 
 to give them flowers, and she always took 
 pleasure in gratifying their wishes. She now 
 thought of decorating her father's tomb in the 
 same manner. The beautiful basket which had 
 been the first cause of her unhappiness was 
 before her on the cupboard. Mary took it and 
 filled it with flowers of all colours, and with 
 fresh leaves, carried it to Erlenbrunn an hour 
 before divine service, and deposited it on her 
 father's tomb. Her tears, in falling on the nose- 
 gay, resembled drops of dew. " Oh, the best 
 and dearest of fathers," said she, " you have, 
 strewed with flowers the path of life for me. 
 If I cannot do as much for you, I will at least
 
 OF FLOWERS. 97 
 
 ornament your grave with flowers." Mary 
 left the basket on the tomb. She had no fear 
 that any one would dare to steal either the 
 basket or the flowers. At a little distance the 
 country people contemplated this offering with 
 joy mingled with pity, blessed in their hearts 
 James's pious daughter, and prayed for her 
 prosperity. The following day, as the people 
 of the farm were taking in the hay from a 
 large meadow situated beyond the forest, a 
 piece of fine linen, which was spread out on 
 the grass near a rivulet, a few steps from the 
 house, suddenly disappeared. The young 
 farmer's wife did not miss it until the evening. 
 Suspicious, as all misers are, her suspicions 
 immediately fell on Mary. The good father 
 James, far from concealing the history of the 
 ring, had related it to the old farmer and his 
 wife. Their son, who had heard it, impru- 
 dently related it to his wife. In the evening, 
 when Mary, a rake on her shoulder and an 
 earthen pitcher in her hand, came into the 
 house with the servants, this wicked woman 
 came out of the kitchen and met her with a 
 torrent of abuse, and ordered her to return the 
 linen immediately. The poor girl answered 
 with mildness, that it was impossible she 
 could have taken the linen, as she had passed 
 the whole day in the hay-field with the people 
 of the house ; that a stranger might easily 
 have taken advantage of a moment when there
 
 98 THE BASKET 
 
 was no one in the kitchen, to commit this 
 theft. This conjecture was indeed the truth. 
 But the farmer's wife began to scold in a 
 frightful tone. Thief!" cried she, " do you 
 think I am ignorant of the theft of the ring, 
 and what difficulty you had to escape the 
 sword of the executioner ? Begone as soon 
 as possible. There is no room in my house 
 for creatures like you." " It is too late," 
 said the husband, " to send her away now. 
 The sun is setting. Let her sup with us, as 
 she has worked hard all day in an excessive 
 heat consent to keep her only this one 
 night." " Not even an hour," said this 
 wicked woman. The husband soon saw that 
 advice would only serve to irritate her still 
 more ; he was, therefore, silent. Mary made 
 no answer to the injuries of the farmer's 
 wife. She wrapped up the little she had in a 
 clean napkin quite large enough to contain all, 
 put the little bundle under her arm, thanked 
 the inhabitants of the Pine Farm for the ser- 
 vices they had done her, protested once more 
 her innocence, and asked permission to take 
 leave of her benefactors. * You may do that," 
 said the farmer's wife, with a disdainful smile, 
 " and if you wish to take with you these two 
 old gray-headed people, it will give me great 
 pleasure. Otherwise, it is evident, death de- 
 signs not to rid me of them for some time." 
 The good old people had heard this noise,
 
 O F F L O W E R S. 99 
 
 and both wept. However, they consoled 
 Mary as well as they could, and gave her 
 some money to assist her on her journey. 
 " Go, good girl," said they to her, " and may 
 God conduct you." Mary set out towards the 
 close of the day with her little bundle under 
 her arm, and began to climb up the mountain, 
 following a narrow road in the woods. She 
 wished to visit once more her father's tomb. 
 When she came out of the forest, the village 
 clock struck seven, and before she arrived at 
 the grave-yard it was nearly dark. But she 
 was not afraid to pass the night in the midst 
 of the graves. She went to her father's tomb, 
 and her tears fell in torrents. The full moon 
 shone through the dark foliage of the two 
 pines, and illumined with a silver light the 
 roses on the grave and the basket of flowers. 
 An evening breeze blew with a soft murmur 
 among the branches of the pine-trees, and 
 agitated in turn the trembling leaves of the 
 rose-tree planted on the tomb. " My dear 
 father," said Mary, " why are you not still 
 here to hear my complaints ? It is better, and 
 it is a blessing for which I thank the Lord, that 
 you did not live to witness this affliction. You 
 are now happy and inaccessible to grief. Oh ! 
 why am I not with you ? Alas ! never was I 
 so much to be pitied as now. When the 
 moon illumined my prison through the iron 
 bars, you were then alive. Oh, my dear fa-
 
 100 THE BASKET 
 
 ther, now it illumines your grave. When I 
 was driven from my country that I loved 
 so much, at least you were left me, and I, 
 had in you a good father, a protector, and 
 faithful friend. Now I have no one. Poor, 
 forsaken, suspected of crime, a stranger, I am 
 alone in the world, and know not where to 
 lay my head. A little corner remained to 
 me on this earth, one little corner, and be- 
 hold I am driven from it. My last consola- 
 tion was to come from time to time and 
 weep on your grave ; of this also I am de- 
 prived." At these words she began again 
 to weep. " Alas !" said she, "I dare not 
 at this hour beg an asylum for the night. If 
 I relate why I was turned out of doors, no 
 one, perhaps, will consent to receive me." 
 She looked around her. Against the grave- 
 yard wall, and near her father's tomb, was a 
 grave-stone, very old and quite covered with 
 moss. As the inscription had been effaced, it 
 was left there to answer as a bench. " I am 
 going to sit down on this stone," said she, 
 " and pass the night near the tomb of my fa- 
 ther. It is, perhaps, the last time I shall ever 
 be here. Perhaps I shall never again see 
 this tomb which is so dear to me. To-morrow, 
 before daybreak, if it be the will of God, I 
 shall continue my route, and I will go whither 
 his hand may direct me."
 
 OP FLOWERS. 101 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Divine Providence sends Relief to Mary. 
 
 MARY sat down on a stone near the wall, 
 and under the thick foliage of a pine, which 
 covered her with its dark branches. She 
 hid her face in her handkerchief, all bathed in 
 tears. Her soul was troubled, and she 
 breathed from the bottom of her heart prayers 
 so fervent that language would fail to express 
 them. Scarcely had she finished when 
 she heard a sweet voice calling her familiarly 
 by her name, " Mary, Mary." She looked 
 and trembled. Then she saw a being with a 
 beautiful face and elegant figure. She was 
 dressed in a long robe as white as snow, on 
 which the moon shone with brightness. Mary 
 could see her distinctly, and frightened and 
 trembling, she was about to fly. " Dear 
 Mary," said this being, in the most affable 
 manner, " be not alarmed. I am but a mor- 
 tal like yourself. But I come to your assist- 
 ance. God has heard your fervent prayers. 
 Look at me ; is it possible you do not know 
 me ?" With an exclamation of surprise, Mary 
 cried, ' Is it you, the Countess Amelia ? 
 Oh, how did you get here ? here in so fright- 
 ful a place at this hour of night, so far 
 from your home ?" The Countess raised 
 Mary gently from the ground, pressed her to 
 12
 
 102 THE BASKET 
 
 her heart, and kissed her tenderly. " Dear 
 Mary," said she, " we have been doing you 
 great injustice. You have been ill rewarded 
 for the pleasure you gave me by the gift of 
 the basket of flowers. But at last your inno- 
 cence is recognised. Ah ! can you forgive 
 us ? Can you forgive my parents and me ? 
 Come, we are ready to repair every thing 
 so far as it lies in our power. Forgive us, 
 dear Mary." '* Do not speak thus," said 
 Mary. " Considering the circumstances, you 
 used a great deal of indulgence towards me. 
 No, it never entered my mind to nourish the 
 least resentment towards you. I only thought 
 of your kindness with gratitude. My only 
 sorrow was, that you and your dear parents 
 should regard me as an ungrateful and hard- 
 hearted wretch. My most ardent desire was, 
 that you might one day be convinced of my 
 innocence, and this desire God has granted. 
 May his name be praised." The Countess 
 pressed Mary to her heart, and bathed her 
 face in tears. Afterwards she looked at the 
 tomb, and clasping her hands, exclaimed in 
 accents of grief, " Oh thou noble man, thou 
 honest gardener, whose remains here repose in 
 the bosom of the earth, thou whom I learned 
 to love from my most tender infancy, whose 
 affectionate counsels I have so often received, 
 and to whose fervent prayers I have so often- 
 listened, why cannot I see thy face to ask
 
 OF FLOWERS. 103 
 
 thy pardon for all the injustice we have done 
 thee ! Ah ! if we had taken more precaution, 
 if we had placed more confidence in an old 
 servant who had always shown an unimpeach- 
 able probity and fidelity, thy remains would 
 not be here to be eaten of worms; thou hadst 
 still been living with us." " Alas, good 
 Countess," said Mary, " my father was very 
 far from feeling the least resentment towards 
 you. He prayed for you every evening and 
 morning, as he was accustomed to do while 
 we lived in Eichbourg. He blessed you all 
 at the hour of his death. * Mary,' said he, 
 a little while before he died, ' I feel perfectly 
 confident that those whom we served will one 
 day recognise your innocence, and will recall 
 you from exile. Assure then the Count, the 
 Countess, and Amelia, whom I have more 
 than once carried in my arms, that my heart 
 was full of respect, of love and gratitude to- 
 wards them till my last breath. Be assured, 
 Countess, that those were his last words." 
 The tears of the good Amelia flowed still 
 abundantly. " Come, Mary," said she, " come 
 and sit down here with me on this stone. I 
 cannot leave this tomb. We are safe here, in 
 the sanctuary of the Lord, and let me tell you 
 how all these strange events have happened."
 
 104 THE BASKET 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 How Amelia came to visit the Grave-yard. 
 
 " GOD is surely with you, dear Mary," said 
 the young Countess, after having made Mary 
 sit down beside her. " He has taken you under 
 his protection. It is he who has marvellously 
 conducted me here to assist you. There is 
 nothing but what is simple and natural in the 
 recital which I shall give you. You will, 
 however, see in it a chain of truly providen- 
 tial circumstances. From the time that your 
 innocence was made known to the world, I 
 had no more rest. You and your father were 
 always present to my mind. Believe me, 
 dear Mary, I have shed many tears on your 
 account. My parents sought for you every- 
 where, without being able to obtain any know- 
 ledge of you. Two days ago I came with 
 my father and mother to the hunting castle 
 of the prince, in the forest not far from this 
 village. For twenty years, at least, this castle 
 has not been visited, and it is inhabited only 
 by the gamekeeper. My father had some 
 particular business. He had spent the whole 
 day in the forest, in company with two 
 strange lords, whom the same business had 
 brought here. These gentlemen came ac- 
 companied by their wives, and a young lady, 
 the daughter of one of them. It had been
 
 OF FLOWERS. 105 
 
 extremely warm during the day, and the even- 
 ing was so fine, so fresh, so delicious, the set- 
 ting sun offered so beautiful a spectacle, the 
 mountains covered with forests of pines, and 
 interspersed with picturesque rocks, were so 
 novel a spectacle, and afforded a pleasure so 
 lively, that I begged permission to view once 
 more the country. The gamekeeper's daugh- 
 ter accompanied me ; as we passed along we 
 found a door of the grave-yard open, and the 
 rays of the setting sun gilded the tombstones. 
 
 I had always since my childhood taken plea- 
 sure in reading inscriptions and epitaphs : I 
 am moved when one tells of a young man or 
 woman carried off in the bloom of youth ; I 
 feel an indescribable, melancholy pleasure, if 
 it concerns a person who had reached an ad- 
 vanced age. The verses themselves, although 
 the sentiments which dictate them are often 
 better than the language in which they are 
 clothed, excite in me a crowd of serious feel- 
 ings, and I never fail to draw from these epi- 
 taphs good thoughts and useful resolutions, 
 which I carry away with me. We came in. 
 After I had read a great number of the inscrip- 
 tions, the gamekeeper's daughter said to me, 
 
 I 1 want to show you something very beauti- 
 ful. It is the grave of an old man. You will 
 there find neither tomb nor epitaph, but it has 
 been ornamented with taste and elegance by 
 the tender piety of a daughter. See through
 
 106 THE BASKET 
 
 the thick foliage of these pines, a beautiful 
 rose-tree, and basket of flowers on the tomb.' 
 I came to it, and stood petrified at the first, 
 glance, as I recognised the basket which had 
 presented itself to my mind a thousand times 
 since you left Eichbourg. I drew near to 
 look at it, and if I had had any doubts, the 
 initials of my name, and the arms of my 
 family would have removed them. I asked 
 for your history, and that of your father. The 
 gamekeeper's daughter related to me your re- 
 sidence at the Pine Farm, the last sickness and 
 death of your father, and the grief which it 
 had caused you. I went to the minister, 
 whom I found a very respectable divine. He 
 confirmed all that I had before heard, and 
 praised you very, very much. I wished to go 
 immediately to the Pine Farm, but during the 
 recital time had flown so rapidly, that it was 
 already quite dark. What shall I do ? said I ; 
 it is now too late to go to the farm, but by to- 
 morrow, at daybreak, we will set out. The 
 minister sent for the schoolmaster, to charge 
 him to go and bring you without delay to the 
 manor. * Poor stranger,' said the school- 
 master, * you need not go very far to look for 
 her : she went a short time ago to her father's 
 tomb, and there she is weeping and lament- 
 ing. Alas ! poor child,' said he, ' may grief 
 not produce in her a disease of the mind. I 
 saw her from an opening in the steeple when
 
 OF FLOWERS. 107 
 
 I went to wind up the clock.' The minister 
 wished to accompany me to the tomb of your 
 father ; but I begged him to allow me to go 
 to you alone, so that I might embrace you 
 with all my heart without any witnesses : and 
 yielding to my importunities, he went to 
 tell my parents where I was, and to prepare 
 them for your arrival. This accounts, my 
 dear Mary, for my sudden appearance. Thus, 
 through the ordering of divine Providence, 
 this BASKET OF FLOWERS has re-united us at 
 the tomb of your father, who is now inhabiting 
 the dwelling of the blessed." 
 
 " Yes," said Mary, clasping her hands, and 
 raising her grateful eyes to heaven, "God 
 has done it all. He has had pity on my 
 tears, and on the extremity in which I was. 
 O what goodness, what boundless tender- 
 ness !" 
 
 " I have still one thing to tell you yet, my 
 dear Mary," answered the Countess, inter- 
 rupting her ; " one peculiarity of this his- 
 tory appears to me singularly touching, and 
 inspires me with an awe for the justice of 
 God, who often directs our lot unknown to 
 ourselves. Juliette, the greatest enemy you 
 have upon earth, had but one thought one 
 desire : it was to banish you from my heart, 
 and to confirm herself in your place. It was 
 with that view that she imagined her dread- 
 ful falsehood, and her atrocious stratagem
 
 108 THE BASKET 
 
 appeared to her to have succeeded but too 
 well. But afterwards it was exactly this 
 falsehood that caused her to lose her place 
 and our confidence, and that rendered you 
 more dear than ever to our hearts. She en- 
 deavoured to estrange you for ever from my 
 heart. Your banishment was continually to 
 her a subject of triumph. In the transport 
 of her malignant joy, she went in the excess 
 of wickedness, and threw at your feet this 
 basket with an insulting laugh, and it was ex- 
 actly this event, which was afterwards, al- 
 though she little thought it then, to re-unite 
 us for ever. Was it not, indeed, this basket 
 which discovered to me your secret dwell- 
 ing? It is true that with the love of God we 
 have nothing to fear from any enemy. God 
 knows how to turn to our advantage all the 
 ill that wicked people can do us ; and thus our 
 most cruel enemies, in all that they attempt 
 against us, can do nothing in reality but 
 contribute to our happiness. It is very well 
 in this case to say that our safety comes 
 from our enemies. But it is time," con- 
 tinued the Countess, " to relate to me also 
 what brought you so late to your father's 
 tomb, and why just now you were crying so 
 bitterly." 
 
 Mary related how they had driven her from 
 the Pine Cottage, a new subject of astonish- 
 ment to the Countess. " Yes, indeed," said
 
 OF FLOWERS. 109 
 
 Amelia, " it is by God's will that I have ar- 
 rived just at the time when you were plunged 
 in the deepest distress, when you were im- 
 ploring his assistance in an accent so sorrow- 
 ful, and when scalding tears were running 
 down your cheeks. You again see in this a 
 surprising proof of this truth, that God knows 
 how to turn to our advantage the ill which 
 our enemies design to do us. The farmer's 
 wicked wife, who drove you from her house, 
 thought she would make you unhappy, and 
 without knowing it, she has conducted you 
 to my arms, and those of my parents, who 
 as well as myself are desirous of making 
 you happy. But it is time to set out," said 
 Amelia ; my parents are waiting for me. 
 Come, dear Mary, I will never leave you any 
 more, and to-morrow you shall set out with 
 us." 
 
 Mary, who thought with grief that perhaps 
 she never should return to this place, bid 
 adieu to the cherished tomb, and it was with 
 difficulty that she could leave it. At length 
 the Countess took her by the hand, saying, 
 " Come, come, dear Mary, and take with 
 you this basket of flowers, in order that we 
 may always have in remembrance the present 
 of your venerable father. Instead of the 
 basket with which your filial piety ornamented 
 his tomb, we will erect a monument more 
 lasting, and it will be to you, I am sure, a
 
 110 THE BASKET 
 
 subject of joy. Come, you must be impatient 
 to hear the history of the ring, and I will re- 
 late it to you on the road." She took her arm, 
 and walked by the soft light of the moon to- 
 wards the castle. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The Story of the finding of the Ring. 
 
 A LONG and dark walk of high and old 
 linden trees led to the castle. After Amelia 
 and Mary had walked for some time in silent 
 revery, "I must," said the young Countess, 
 " relate to you how the ring was found. 
 We left the court this year earlier than 
 usual, in the beginning of March. The 
 affairs of my father required his presence at 
 Eichbourg. Scarcely had we arrived when the 
 weather changed. One night, in particular, 
 we had a tremendous storm. You know the 
 enormous pear-tree we had in our garden at 
 Eichbourg. It was already very old, and bore 
 scarcely any fruit. The wind, which that 
 night blew with great violence, had bent it so 
 much that it threatened every moment to fall. 
 My father ordered it to be cut down. All the 
 servants were obliged to assist, and to take 
 great care in order that it should not injure 
 the other trees in its fall. My father, my rno-
 
 OF FLOWERS. Ill 
 
 ihcr, the children, and indeed all the people 
 in the castle had come into the garden. They 
 all wanted to see. As soon as the tree fell 
 down, my two little brothers ran immediately 
 towards a nest of magpies, which was in the 
 tree, and which had been for a long time an 
 object of dispute between these children. 
 They examined their prey with great atten- 
 tion. 4 Look ! brother,' said Augustus, 
 * what is that shining among the branches ? 
 What brightness !' * It is something,' said 
 Albert, * as sparkling as gold and precious 
 stones.' Juliette made haste to look at it, and 
 uttered a scream. ' Oh,' said she, ' it is the 
 ring /' and became as pale as death. The 
 children undid the ring from among the 
 branches, and carried it immediately, in great 
 glee, to my mother. Yes, it is,' said my 
 mother. Oh ! good and honest James, Oh ! 
 poor Mary, what injustice we have done you. 
 I am very glad to find this ring again, but I 
 should be much more so if I could find James 
 and Mary. I would willingly make the sacrifice 
 of the ring to repair the wrong which I have 
 done them.' ' But,' said I, ' by what singular 
 chance was this ring carried into the nest at 
 the top of the tree ?' ' That is what I am 
 going to explain to you,' said the old hunts- 
 man, Anthony, with tears in his eyes, such 
 was his joy in seeing your innocence acknow- 
 ledged ! * Neither the old gardener James
 
 112 THE BASKET 
 
 nor his daughter Mary could have hidden the 
 ring in this place. That is very clear. The 
 tree was too high, and it would have been 
 almost impossible to climb up as high as that. 
 Besides, they did not give them time. Mary 
 had scarcely returned to the house when she 
 and her father were both arrested. But mag- 
 pies, these black birds that have their nest 
 upon this tree, have a great taste for any thing 
 that shines ; and if they can find any thing 
 that has that quality, they carry it off imme- 
 diately to their nest. One of these birds stole 
 the ring and carried it to the tree. That is all 
 the mystery. The only thing that astonishes 
 me is, that an old huntsman like I am should 
 not have thought sooner that these birds 
 might have stolen the lost ring.' * Anthony,' 
 said my mother, * you are perfectly right, and 
 the whole secret bursts upon me at once. I 
 recollect very distinctly that very often these 
 birds came from the top of this tree to the 
 window, that the sash was up when the ring 
 disappeared, that the table upon which I had 
 put the ring was close to the window, and 
 that after having shut the door and bolted it, 
 I went into the next room, where I stayed for 
 some time. No doubt one of these mischievous 
 birds distinguished the ring from the top of 
 this tree, and took advantage of the moment in 
 which I was amusing myself in the other room 
 to come and carry it off in his beak without
 
 OF FLOWERS. 113 
 
 being perceived.' My father was troubled 
 and confounded at having a conviction so un- 
 foreseen, still so complete, that you and your 
 father had been the victims of an unjust con- 
 demnation. * My heart is almost broken,' 
 said he, ' for having done these good people 
 so much injury. My only consolation is, that 
 it was not done through ill-will, but in igno- 
 rance and error.' Thereupon he went to 
 Juliette, who, amidst all the gayety pictured on 
 every countenance, remained pale and trem- 
 bling, like a guilty creature. False wretch !' 
 said he, * deceitful serpent ! what could have 
 given you the boldness to lie to your masters 
 and to justice, and to induce them to do an 
 action the iniquity of which now cries for 
 vengeance ? How could you take upon your- 
 self to precipitate into an abyss of suffering 
 an old and honest man, and his poor and in- 
 nocent daughter ? Come, seize her in an in- 
 stant,' said he to two officers of justice, who 
 had assisted in cutting down the tree, and who 
 had already approached Juliette, and had their 
 eyes fixed on my father, whose orders they 
 were waiting. Let her be loaded with 
 chains,' said he, in a grave tone, * the same 
 chains that Mary wore, and let her be thrown 
 into the same prison in which she caused 
 Mary to languish. She ought to suffer all 
 that Mary suffered without having deserved it. 
 What she has been able to pick up, of money 
 
 K2
 
 114 THE BASKET 
 
 or clothes, shall be taken from her to serve as 
 a compensation, if it is still possible, to those 
 unhappy people who have had to groan under 
 an unjust process. In fine, the officer who 
 conducted Mary out of my dominions shall 
 also conduct Juliette, just as she is, as far as 
 the limit.' These words made every one 
 present tremble. They were all pale and 
 silent. No one had ever seen my father so 
 exasperated ; never had they heard him speak 
 with so much warmth. A profound silence 
 reigned for some time. At last every one read- 
 ily spoke his sentiments and thoughts. * It is 
 well done,' said the officer, taking Juliette by 
 the arm. ' When one digs another's grave 
 one must fill it one's-self.' That is what is 
 gained by telling falsehoods,' said the other 
 officer, taking her other arm. ' It is true that 
 no thread is so fine that it cannot be seen in 
 the sunshine.' ' It was a pretty dress given 
 to Mary,' said the cook in her turn, ' that 
 made Juliette angry. In her passion, not know- 
 ing well what she was about, she began to 
 tell falsehoods, and then it was impossible to 
 retract without acknowledging herself an infa- 
 mous liar. Thus the proverb is not wrong 
 which says, " When once the devil has us by 
 the hair, he will hold fast to us always." ' * It 
 is well, it is well,' said the coachman, who 
 had just finished cutting the tree, and who still 
 had the axe over his shoulder. ' Let us hope
 
 OF FLOWERS. 115 
 
 that at least this time she will mend her ways, 
 if she does not wish to be worse off in the next 
 world. The tree that bears not good fruit,' 
 said he, shaking his axe, ' shall be cut down, 
 and cast into the fire.' The news of the ring 
 was spread through all Eichbourg in an in- 
 stant, and every one ran to the place, so that 
 in a little while there was a great crowd round 
 us. Our bailiff came also into the garden. 
 Every witness of the discovery was as eager 
 as possible to tell him all about it. 
 
 " You cannot imagine, my dear Mary, the 
 effect that this story produced on the good 
 bailiff. Notwithstanding his severity respect- 
 ing you, he is most assuredly a man of great 
 probity, and one who has attached himself 
 all his life to laws and justice with inviolable 
 fidelity. * I would give half my goods,' said 
 he, in a tone that went to the heart of every 
 one, * yes, I would willingly have given every 
 thing that I possess, if this misfortune had not 
 happened. To condemn innocence has some- 
 thing frightful in it.' Then looking round 
 him at the assembled multitude, he said, in 
 a loud and solemn voice, ' God is the only 
 infallible judge, the only one who cannot be 
 deceived. He knows every thing : he alone 
 knew how the ring had disappeared ; he alone 
 knew the place in which it had remained hid- 
 den until now. The judges of the earth are 
 near-sighted, and very likely to deceive them-
 
 116 THE BASKET 
 
 selves. It is rare here below that innocence 
 suffers and vice triumphs. The invisible 
 Judge, who will recompense one day all good 
 actions, and punish all bad ones, the Most 
 High, has resolved that even here below inno- 
 cence shall not long suffer from suspicion, 
 nor hidden crime remain long concealed. And 
 see, admire, by what a marvellous chain of 
 events circumstances have obeyed his holy 
 will to concur to this end. It was necessary 
 that this dreadful storm which shook the whole 
 castle and made us all tremble last night, 
 should bend the old tree and make us fear that 
 it would fall. It was necessary that a heavy 
 and sudden shower should wash the inside of 
 the nest, in order that the ring, itself washed, 
 should immediately strike us by its brilliancy. 
 It was necessary that lively and playful chil- 
 dren, who would not seek to hide what they 
 had found, should first have discovered the 
 ring. It was .necessary that Juliette herself, 
 who had made herself guilty of the falsehood, 
 should be the first to proclaim, if I may so 
 speak, loudly, by a scream, the innocence of 
 Mary. This is not the only example of so 
 marvellous a story. It is true, that God has 
 reserved to himself the business of submitting 
 all the old cases to a revision, only in another 
 world, and to render to every one the justice 
 that is due to him, sending him to inherit life 
 or death. However, he sometimes permits
 
 OF FLOWERS. 117 
 
 events to occur even upon earth, to oblige you 
 to turn your looks to him, to the sovereign 
 Judge, who is not open to any surprise, and who 
 thus forces us to believe that eternal justice 
 governs all things, and renders unto all their 
 dues.' Such were the words which the judge 
 pronounced in a vehement tone. Every one 
 listened attentively to his discourse : they 
 agreed that he was right, and they all dis- 
 persed with a pensive air. That, my dear 
 Mary, is the way in which the ring was found." 
 While Amelia was relating this fortunate 
 adventure, they had arrived at the door of the 
 castle. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 The Injustice done to Mary acknowledged and repaired. 
 
 THE Count, the Countess, and the other 
 people of the house were assembled in the 
 drawing-room of the castle, which was deco- 
 rated with taste and magnificence. Some 
 time had elapsed since the worthy minister had 
 arrived in the parlour, and all the company 
 had been listening with the greatest interest 
 to what he had been saying of James and 
 Mary. Indeed he spoke from the heart, re- 
 lated in an animated tone the history of the 
 pious old man, painted in rich and touching
 
 118 THE BASKET 
 
 colours the noble sentiments and all the con- 
 duct of this upright man during his residence 
 at the Pine Cottage spoke particularly of. 
 his respect and love for the Count and his 
 family. He related numerous instances of 
 the filial piety of Mary, of her indefatigable 
 activity, of her patience and modesty. Tears 
 streamed from the eyes of all who listened to 
 him. At this moment, the Countess Amelia, 
 holding Mary by one hand, and with the 
 other carrying the basket of flowers, entered 
 the richly lighted room. Every one tried to 
 outdo his fellow in welcoming her, and Mary 
 was loaded with congratulations. The Count 
 took her kindly by the hand, and said, "Poor 
 child, how pale and thin you look. It was 
 our inconsiderate conduct that deprived your 
 cheeks of their fresh colour, and furrowed 
 with wrinkles your young forehead, lately so 
 smooth. We will spare nothing that the 
 faded flowers may once more bloom on your 
 cheeks. We chased you from the paternal 
 roof; you shall have the house in future for 
 your property. O yes, your father only en- 
 joyed the pretty house and handsome garden 
 of Eichbourg as a tenant, but now it shall be 
 yours." The Countess kissed Mary, pressed 
 her to her heart, called her her daughter, and 
 taking from her finger the ring which had 
 caused so many misfortunes " Here, my 
 dear child," said she, " your piety is a jewel
 
 OF FLOWERS. 119 
 
 more precious, it is true, than the large dia- 
 mond which sparkles in this ring. Still, al- 
 though you possess a richer treasure, accept 
 this present receive it as a feeble ctfmpensa- 
 tion for the wrong which you have suffered, 
 and as a token of the sincere attachment and 
 maternal tenderness that I feel towards you." 
 At these words she put the ring on Mary's 
 finger. Mary, who had shed so many bitter 
 tears, now shed very sweet ones. She was 
 almost overcome with so much kindness, and 
 ready to sink under the weight of the benefits, 
 as if it was a heavy burden. " Poor child," 
 said one of the company, "take what a gene- 
 rous benefactor offers you. God has loaded 
 the Count and his wife with the goods of for- 
 tune, but he has given them something more 
 precious hearts which know how to make 
 the best use of their riches." " Why do you 
 flatter us ?" said the Countess ; " this is not 
 a generous action it is but an act Q$ jus- 
 tice" 
 
 Mary, always modest, held with a trem- 
 bling hand the ring which she had taken, and 
 turned her eyes, wet with tears, towards the 
 minister, to know what she was to do. " Yes, 
 Mary," said the venerable minister, " yes, 
 you must keep the ring. You see, my good 
 child, God is blessing your filial piety ; for 
 whoever sincerely honours his parents shall 
 be the better for it. God has promised it, and
 
 120 THE BASKET 
 
 God makes use of the benevolent hand of the 
 Count and Countess to fulfil his word. Re- 
 ceive, then, this rich present with gratitude, 
 and since adversity has found in you a due 
 resignation to the Divine will, you have only 
 to show yourself in prosperity grateful to his 
 name, benevolent and kind." Mary put the 
 ring on her finger ; her tears choked her ut- 
 terance and expressed her gratitude. Amelia, 
 who stood beside her with the basket of flow- 
 ers in her hand, was delighted with the gene- 
 rous proceedings of her parents. Her eyes 
 shone with affection for Mary. The minister, 
 who had but too often observed how envious 
 children generally are when their parents ex- 
 ercise their benevolence towards other people, 
 was only more touched by the disinterested- 
 ness of Amelia. " May God," said he, " re- 
 ward the generosity of the Count and Countess, 
 and may all that they have done for a poor 
 orphan be rendered to them a hundred fold, 
 in the person of their own dear daughter." 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Another remarkable Circumstance of this History. 
 
 THE Countess ordered supper to be brought, 
 and chose that Mary should eat with her.. 
 While the blessing was pronouncing, accord-
 
 OF FLOWERS. 121 
 
 ing to an excellent custom which then reigned 
 generally amongst the highest class of people, 
 Mary experienced quite an extraordinary 
 emotion. She was invited to sit down between 
 the Countess and her daughter Amelia. She 
 objected, with a timidity suitable to her age 
 and sex, to accept this place of honour. 
 But the Countess insisted on it, and taking 
 her by the hand, led her to the place des- 
 tined for her. During the repast nothing 
 was talked of but Mary's story. The Count 
 had brought with him the old huntsman, the 
 honest Anthony, who was perfectly acquainted 
 with the forest. This faithful servant, more 
 from pleasure than duty, always assisted in 
 waiting upon his master's table. That even- 
 ing he stood almost all the time behind Mary's 
 chair, and did not cease to wipe his tears. 
 His age had given him the right to put in a 
 word here and there. " Is it not true, Miss 
 Mary ?" said he. " Do we not at last see the 
 fulfilment of what I told you and your father 
 in the forest ? he who trusts in God may be 
 sure of divine protection. Only one thing is 
 wanting. If your father, that old, that re- 
 spectable friend of my youth, had lived long 
 enough to see the light of this joyful day ! 
 That good father James ! Ah ! what happi- 
 ness it would have been for him here to con- 
 template the dearest object of his love on 
 earth, his daughter, acknowledged innocent,
 
 122 THE BASKET 
 
 and thus loaded with honour. Why did he 
 not live to see this day, and taste so great a 
 pleasure?" " Good old man," said the minis- 
 ter, " I admire your sentiments, for they do 
 honour to your heart ; but our view must not 
 be limited by the short horizon of this life. It 
 is the smallest and, I dare say, the most mise- 
 rable portion of our existence, taken in its ex- 
 tent. This world is only the vestibule to an- 
 other. The life we live upon earth is only 
 the preparation for a better one which is re- 
 served for us in heaven. Now if we consider 
 the existence of man without regarding his 
 future destination, we shall make great errors. 
 But let us raise our eyes to heaven, and then 
 such views will offer themselves to us as 
 will console our minds respecting every dis- 
 pensation. That was the case with Mary arid 
 James. The misfortunes that this young girl 
 endured have been already recompensed in a 
 most noble manner. As for her father, it 
 seemed good to God that he should die mis- 
 judged, and plunged into the depths of mise- 
 ry. But there is another and better life. 
 There is, happily for us, a celestial dwelling- 
 place. It is there it is in heaven that the 
 good man is released from all his sufferings. 
 It is there that he now tastes the joys and 
 the sweets of a glorious felicity, and we who 
 are seated at this banquet, in this brilliant 
 room, have not a shadow of the pleasure
 
 OF FLOWERS. 123 
 
 which he enjoys. But more I do not know 
 why but my heart tells me, and in many 
 cases it is better to believe one's heart than 
 one's head, my heart tells me that this pious 
 old man who carried with him to heaven the 
 sentiments of a father, takes more pleasure in 
 this development than we think. Let me re- 
 late a fact which I had almost forgotten among 
 so many other things. 
 
 " I went one morning to his bedside. What- 
 ever was his confidence in divine Providence, 
 he could not, however, help expressing some 
 anxiety respecting his dear daughter ; but that 
 day I found him uncommonly cheerful, his 
 countenance was serene, and there was a 
 smile upon his lips : he held his hand out of 
 bed to me, and said, ' Now, sir, I am at last 
 freed from the burden that was on my heart, 
 my anxiety concerning my daughter ; I now 
 am perfectly tranquil. Last night I prayed 
 with more fervour than I ever perhaps did in 
 my life, and I felt in my heart the sweetness 
 of a calm, unknown until now, and a conso- 
 lation truly divine. I feel firmly confident 
 that my prayer will be heard. I shut my 
 eyes and slept quite composedly, for I know 
 that the innocence of my daughter will be dis- 
 covered the noble Count will take care of 
 her as a father, and she will find a mother in 
 the Countess.' Such were the words of the 
 pious old man ; and this evening at table I
 
 124 THE BASKET 
 
 have just learned, to my great astonishment, 
 that, that very night the violence of the wind 
 had bent down the old tree which grew in the. 
 garden of the castle, and thus shown to the 
 world, with the ring that was lost, the un- 
 known innocence of Mary. Thus even at 
 the very moment was his fervent prayer an- 
 swered. It is a consolation to me to think 
 that even beyond the tomb he is not a stranger 
 to the happiness of his daughter, the object 
 of so much tenderness ; and that he partici- 
 pates in our joys. One thing is certain, that 
 the prayer of this pious old man, offered up 
 that night, and immediately answered, en- 
 lightens this chain of events, with a light 
 which rejoices the soul. It appears to make 
 this little history a work of divine Providence. 
 No," continued the minister, with emotion, 
 '* our meeting here is not the effect of acci- 
 dent; it is not a blind chance, which has pre- 
 pared this touching scene, which has filled us 
 with so much happiness. It is the goodness 
 of God it is his holy Providence which has 
 conducted me, a stranger, into the midst of 
 this company. He has willed that I should 
 bear witness of him in revealing a circum- 
 stance confided to me by the dying, and which 
 has caused us to penetrate into the secrets of 
 this history. May we be convinced by this 
 event that God overrules all events. May 
 we be persuaded that we have on high a
 
 OF FLOWERS. 125 
 
 Father whose heart beats with love for us. 
 May we retain so sweet a belief in life and in 
 death !" " That belief, my dear minister," 
 said the Countess, rising and giving him her 
 hand, " I share with you." Every one pre- 
 sent had the same sentiment, and they all rose 
 as she had done. " It is now late," added 
 the Countess, " and as we shall set out very 
 early to-morrow morning, we must rest a little, 
 and we will separate for the present, in order 
 to avoid any distraction which might make 
 us lose the good feelings which the minister 
 has awakened in us. We could not better 
 finish the day." They all separated with 
 hearts full of gratitude to God. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Visit to the Pine Farm. 
 
 THE next morning, as soon as the sun was 
 up, everybody in the castle was occupied in 
 preparing for the departure ; but nothing could 
 equal the attention which they all paid to 
 Mary. During her residence at the Pine 
 Farm, as Mary was obliged to buy herself 
 clothes, she was able to get only those of the 
 coarsest character, and she was, therefore, 
 dressed almost exactly as the villagers of the 
 country. 
 
 L 2
 
 126 THE BASKET 
 
 But a young lady who was of the same 
 age and size as Mary, presented her, at the re- 
 quest of Amelia, with a complete dress, neat, 
 handsome, and new, and such as, without be- 
 ing at all extravagant, suited her new situa- 
 tion " For," said Amelia, " henceforth you 
 are my friend, my companion, and you will 
 always live with me ; therefore, you ought to 
 dress yourself differently." 
 
 After breakfast they went riding, and Mary 
 was placed beside Amelia, opposite to the 
 Count and Countess. The Count ordered the 
 coachman to take them to the Pine Farm, be- 
 cause he wished to become acquainted with 
 the people who had given Mary and her fa- 
 ther so hearty a welcome. On the way they 
 inquired about their situation with great in- 
 terest, and Mary did not hide from them that 
 they were far from being happy, and that they 
 had scarcely any peaceful moments to hope 
 for in their old days. The arrival of the car- 
 riage made not a little noise at the Pine Farm ; 
 for since the existence of the farm never per- 
 haps had a carriage, at least never had so 
 handsome a one, been there. No sooner had 
 the young farmer's wife seen the carriage stop 
 before the door, than she hastened to go. to it. 
 " Sir," said she, " allow me to assist you to 
 get out, and also the ladies, your daughters, I 
 presume." She had just presented her hand 
 to one of the young ladies when she recog-
 
 OF FLOWERS. 127 
 
 nised her to be Mary herself, and with an 
 exclamation of surprise she let go her hand 
 as if she had touched a serpent, drew back, 
 and blushed and grew pale by turns. The 
 old farmer was working in his garden. The 
 Count, the Countess, and Amelia ran to this 
 good old man, took him by the hand, and 
 thanked him for his benevolence towards 
 Mary and her father, and thanked him for it 
 in the most affectionate manner. " Ah," 
 said the honest peasant, " I owe that good 
 man more than he ever owed me. The bless- 
 ing of heaven came with him into our house, 
 and if I had followed his advice in every thing, 
 I should have been much better for it at this 
 moment. Since his death I have no pleasure 
 in any thing but this garden. It is, besides, to 
 his wise advice that I am indebted for reserv- 
 ing this little corner of ground, and from him 
 I learned to cultivate it. Since I have not had 
 strength to follow the plough, I have occupied 
 myself here, and I seek among herbs and 
 flowers the peace that I no longer find in my 
 house." In the mean time Mary had gone to 
 look for the old farmer's wife in her little 
 room, and she was now leading her by the 
 hand. She begged her continually not to be 
 alarmed, for the good woman was quite over- 
 come. She approached with a timid and 
 embarrassed air, and was distressed to find 
 herself overwhelmed with thanks.
 
 128 THE BASKET 
 
 The good old people were very much con- 
 fused, and cried for joy like children. At 
 last the farmer, addressing Mary, said, " Did I 
 not well tell you that your filial piety would re- 
 ceive its reward ? Well, there is my prophecy 
 fulfilled." Meanwhile the old woman had 
 taken courage, and said, " Yes, yes, your fa- 
 ther was right with his maxim : * He who 
 clothes the flowers well knows how to take 
 care of you.' " Their daughter-in-law stood 
 at some distance, and said within herself, 
 " Well, well ! What won't happen in this 
 life ! This miserable beggar now look at 
 her ! She is a young lady of high rank. 
 Who would have thought of such a thing ? 
 There is not a woman in our town who can 
 be compared with her now. But every one 
 knows, however, who she is. They know 
 that yesterday she set out from here, with her 
 little package under her arm, to go and beg 
 here and there in the country." The Count 
 had not heard this abusive language, but it 
 was enough for him to see the mocking look 
 and the angry appearance of this woman. 
 " That is a wicked creature," said he, and 
 he walked twice round the garden in a very 
 thoughtful mood. "Listen, my good old man," 
 said he at last, stopping before the farmer. " I 
 have a proposition to make to you. I have 
 given Mary the little piece of ground which- 
 was cultivated by her father. But Mary is not
 
 OF FLOWERS. 129 
 
 yet ready to go to housekeeping. What can 
 prevent you from retiring there ? It will suit 
 you, I am certain, and I know beforehand that 
 the owner will not exact any rent from you. 
 You can there cultivate as you choose herbs 
 and flowers ; and, above all, you will find in that 
 pretty habitation both rest and peace in your 
 old days." The Count's wife, the Countess, 
 Amelia, and Mary, insisted that the old people 
 should accept this offer. But there was no 
 need of persuasion. They were happy to be 
 taken from their present uncomfortable situa- 
 tion. At this moment the young farmer came 
 home from, the fields. He was very anxious 
 to know what miracle brought to his farm a 
 carriage drawn by four fine white horses. 
 The moment he knew what was talked about 
 he consented to it, although it cost him a 
 great deal to part with his old parents. His 
 greatest grief had been to see them so badly 
 treated by their own daughter-in-law, and it 
 was a great consolation for him to think that 
 they were going to be more happy. The 
 young farmer's wife, completely overcome by 
 passion at finding this state of things, said to 
 the Count, " It is a great favour that you are 
 bestowing on us, in getting us rid of these old 
 people." The Count promised he would send 
 for the old man and his wife as soon as every 
 thing was ready. Then he and the company 
 stepped into the carriage and rode off.
 
 130 THE BASKET 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 The Consequences of the Love of the World. 
 
 THE noble Count did not fail to keep his 
 word. The next autumn a carriage was 
 sent from Eichbourg to the Pine Farm to 
 bring the old people. The son wept bitterly 
 when he saw that he was going to lose his 
 old father and mother. The daughter-in-law, 
 who had counted the days and hours until 
 the moment of their departure, felt the keenest 
 joy in being at last quite rid of them. But it 
 was soon seen that her joy was not to be un- 
 alloyed. The coachman presented her with a 
 note signifying that she should pay all that 
 had been stipulated for the support of her fa- 
 ther and mother-in-law, and that the price of 
 the provisions, valued in money according to 
 the current market price, should' be paid by her 
 every quarter. She became violently angry, 
 fretted, and fumed. " We are overreached, 
 after all," said she. " If they had stayed here, it 
 would not have cost half as much." The son 
 was delighted that he could thus soothe the 
 old age of his parents in spite of his wife, but 
 he took good care not to show his joy. The 
 good people set off in the carriage the next 
 morning, followed by the blessings of their son, 
 and the secret maledictions of their daughter- 
 in-law. This wicked woman had the fate
 
 OF FLOWERS. 131 
 
 which her conduct towards her parents de- 
 served, and which is always the lot of avarice 
 and inhumanity. She had placed her money 
 in the hands of a merchant who had just set 
 up a manufactory, and who had promised to 
 pay her ten per cent. The annual interest 
 was added to the capital, which produced 
 new interest, and this also produced other. 
 The farmer's wife thought herself the happiest 
 of women, and had no greater pleasure in the 
 world than to make her calculation of the sum 
 to which all this money would amount in ten 
 and in twenty years. But to all these happy 
 dreams soon succeeded a sudden and terrible 
 reverse. The enterprise of the merchant did 
 not succeed, and his goods were sold by the 
 order of the sheriff. This was a thunder- 
 stroke for the farmer's wife. From the mo- 
 ment that she heard of this catastrophe she no 
 longer had any repose. She was seen almost 
 all day either on the road running to the law- 
 yer or to her neighbours, complaining of 
 her hard lot, and she spent the night in weep- 
 ing and scolding. At last, instead of her ten 
 thousand dollars, she received some hundreds. 
 Then she gave up to despair ; life was terrible 
 to her, and she wished for death. Eaten up 
 with continual cares, weakened and worn out, 
 she was attacked with a fever which never 
 left her. Her husband wished to go for the 
 physician of the village, but she would not
 
 132 THE BASKET 
 
 consent to it. For this time the farmer re- 
 sisted seriously, and sent for the doctor ; but 
 his wife in a passion threw the medicine out 
 of the window, without having even uncorked' 
 the bottle. At last she became so seriously 
 ill, that her husband requested the minister of 
 Erlenbrunn to come and see her. He did so 
 frequently during her sickness, and talked to 
 her in the most persuasive tone, to induce her 
 to repent and amend her ways, to detach her 
 heart from the things of this earth and to turn 
 to God. But this advice made her very 
 angry. She looked at the good minister with 
 utter astonishment. " I do not know," said 
 she, " for what purpose the minister comes to 
 preach penitence to me. He ought to have 
 delivered such a sermon to the merchant who 
 stole our money ; yes, that would have been 
 just the thing. As for me, I do not see that 
 I have any great need of repentance. As long 
 as I was able to go out, I went regularly to 
 church on Sunday, and at home I never failed 
 to say my prayers every day. I have not 
 ceased to work all my life to heap up money, 
 and to behave like the most perfect model of 
 virtue and economy. I defy any living soul 
 to slander me, and among all the poor people 
 who have come to my door, not one of them 
 can complain that I sent him away without 
 giving him something. Now I should like to 
 know how any one can behave better. I
 
 
 OF FLOWERS. 133 
 
 should have thought that the minister would 
 have considered me one of the most pious and 
 virtuous people of all his parish." The 
 venerable pastor saw himself obliged to take 
 a more expressive tone to lead her to amend 
 her ways. He proved to her at last, and in 
 the most palpable manner, that she loved money 
 more than any thing in the world ; and that 
 avarice, which she was wrong in confounding 
 with economy, was effectually a real idolatry. 
 He represented to her that she must put among 
 her sins these transports of anger which over- 
 came her ; that the most lovely of all virtues, 
 filial affection, had totally failed her ; that by 
 her avarice she had poisoned the days of her 
 husband, cruelly driven away the poor orphan 
 Mary, and even turned off her husband's old 
 parents, those whom she ought to have che- 
 rished and honoured as if they were her own ; 
 that with a fortune like hers, she was far from 
 having fulfilled the important duty of charity 
 from having given here and there a little piece 
 of bread or a handful of flowers to a poor 
 man, often merely to get rid of him ; that she 
 knew nothing of true love to man, founded on 
 sincere love to God ; that the essence of 
 Christianity was love to God and men ; that 
 in spite of all her boasting of going to church, 
 public worship could not save her soul, for it 
 had never made her any better ; and finally, 
 that all her prayers, coming from a heart un- 
 M
 
 134 THE BASKET 
 
 warmed by love, could not be truly prayer. 
 In this faithful way did he talk to her, but she 
 would not allow the zealous pastor to say any 
 more. She began to sob and cry out of pas- 
 sion. 
 
 The good pastor, quite troubled, took his 
 hat and cane and went away. " Alas !" said 
 he, " how difficult it is for a heart set upon 
 the things of this world to taste those of 
 heaven ! How far is such a heart from the 
 kingdom of God. Such a heart considers 
 itself excused before God by the repetition of 
 a few vain words, and thinks its duty towards 
 its neighbour is performed by throwing to the 
 poor a few superfluous crumbs. However, 
 people remain incorrigible, and go so far in 
 their blindness as to mistake vice for virtue. 
 Alas !" said, he, in passing near the garden 
 and looking at it, " how wrong some people 
 are in supposing that to be rich is to be happy. 
 This farmer's rich wife, with all her money and 
 all her goods, never had in her life one of 
 those happy hours which were bestowed in such 
 rich plenty on poor Mary amidst the flowers 
 of this garden." However, the farmer's wife 
 had yet much to suffer. She spent whole 
 nights in coughing. Her avarice scarcely al- 
 lowed her to take the proper remedies or 
 nourishment. Her sufferings were not miti- 
 gated by any consoling thought. She was 
 utterly unwilling to resign herself to God and
 
 OF FLOWERS. 135 
 
 to submit to the Divine will. The good mi- 
 nister tried in every imaginable way to bring 
 her mind to a better frame. She was occa- 
 sionally a little softened during the last days 
 of her life, but never evinced any true repent- 
 ance. At last she died in the flower of her 
 age, a deplorable instance of the effects of 
 avarice, and passion, and love of the world. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 I..-* 
 
 Mary's Spirit of Christian Forgiveness. 
 
 AFTER a while Mary went with the family 
 of the Count to the city, in which he resided 
 part of the year. While there a clergyman, 
 \vhose white hairs announced an advanced age, 
 came one morning to the residence of the 
 Count, and asked for Mary. He told her he 
 was charged with a commission for her. A 
 person very ill, and probably near to death, 
 desired to speak with her before she died. 
 She could not die in peace unless this favour 
 was granted her. The old minister said, that 
 the person was not willing to say any thing 
 except to Mary herself. This request as- 
 tonished Mary very much. She consulted 
 the Countess as to what she ought to do. 
 The Countess, who knew the clergyman to be 
 a pious and prudent man, advised her to go
 
 136 THE BASKET 
 
 with him. At the request of the clergyman, 
 old Anthony accompanied them. Mary walk- 
 ed for a long time to the most retired part of 
 the suburbs. She arrived at last at the door of 
 a house situated in a by-street, which presented 
 the most gloomy aspect. There were five 
 staircases to mount, the two last of which 
 were so dark, so narrow, and so broken that 
 she felt seized with fear. Then the clergyman 
 stopped before an old door formed of planks 
 nailed together without having been planed. 
 " This is it," said he ; " but wait a little." 
 He went in for a moment, and then returned 
 for Mary, who then entered with him the 
 most miserable garret ever seen. The window 
 was narrow and dark, and the panes were 
 filled with paper. A forlorn truckle-bed, 
 covered with a more forlorn mattrass or rather 
 an old straw bed, a broken chair near the bed, 
 a stone pitcher on the chair, with neither handle 
 nor cover, composed the furniture. The pa- 
 tient stretched on the bed was truly a frightful 
 object. Mary thought she saw a skeleton 
 move, and begin to speak with a frightful 
 voice, which resembled the rattle of death, 
 and extend to her a hand which seemed no- 
 thing but skin and bone. She trembled in 
 every limb. It was with great difficulty that 
 at last she learned, by the indistinct words 
 pronounced with difficulty, that this frightful 
 phantom was Juliette, Juliette* who, at the
 
 OF FLOWERS. 137 
 
 castle of Eichbourg, had been the cause of all 
 her distress. This wretched woman had 
 learned from the minister that Mary was in 
 the city with the family of the Count. Her 
 design in sending for her was to ask her par- 
 don with respect to the ring. If she had 
 begged the clergyman not to mention her 
 name, it was because she was afraid that Mary, 
 justly irritated, would refuse to come. Mary 
 had too much Christian sensibility not to be 
 affected even to tears. She made many de- 
 clarations, assuring her that all, absolutely all, 
 was forgiven a long time since, and that the 
 only feeling she experienced was a sentiment 
 of the deepest and most lively pity. " Alas !" 
 said Juliette, "I am a great sinner ; I have 
 deserved my fate. Forgetfulness of God, 
 contempt of good advice, the exclusive love 
 of dress, of flattery and of pleasure, was the 
 first source of misery, and this it is which has 
 brought me so low. I die the victim of my 
 follies. Ah !" cried she, raising her voice in 
 a pathetic tone, and weeping bitterly, " I fear 
 a more dreadful state awaits me in the other 
 world. You have deigned to pardon me, you 
 whom I so cruelly offended, but I feel the 
 weight of God's displeasure now settling on 
 my soul." Mary had a long conversation 
 with her, and endeavoured to turn her to the 
 precious Saviour, who would receive her if 
 she would repent. But she was obliged to 
 
 M2
 
 138 THE BASKET 
 
 leave her without being satisfied as to her state 
 of mind, and the idea of the sinful Juliette 
 perishing without hope continually pressed on 
 her mind, and weighed down her spirits. She ' 
 **was continually saying to herself, " That 
 frightful phantom was Juliette, the beautiful 
 Juliette." These words were in her mouth 
 almost every instant of the day. Then she 
 recollected her little apple-tree in blossom 
 withered by the frost. "What her father had 
 said to her on that occasion, the most consol- 
 ing words he had said on his death-bed, pre- 
 sented themselves to her mind, and she re- 
 newed the promise which she had made to 
 God to live entirely to his glory. She re- 
 membered the declaration of our Saviour : 
 " do good to them that hate you, and pray for 
 them who despitefully use you and persecute 
 you." Under these feelings she implored the 
 Countess to relieve the distress of Juliette. 
 This generous lady sent her medicine, food, 
 linen, and every thing of which she stood in 
 need. But it was all too late. At the age of 
 twenty-three, she died a miserable evidence of 
 the folly and wickedness of doing Injury to 
 others to promote what we absurdly suppose 
 our own advantage. Juliette gave no evidence 
 of repentance, but died, as she had lived, with- 
 out God and without hope.
 
 OF FLOWERS. 139 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Mary's happy and useful Life. 
 
 THE next spring, when the country was 
 covered with verdure and flowers, the Count, 
 accompanied by his wife and daughter, went 
 to his house at Eichbourg. Mary accompanied 
 them, and took her accustomed place in the 
 carriage by the side of Amelia. Towards 
 evening, when they approached Eichbourg, 
 and when Mary saw, by the light of the setting 
 sun, the steeple of the church, the Count's 
 castle, and her father's house, she was so much 
 touched that she could not restrain her tears. 
 " Alas !" said she, " when I left Eichbourg, I 
 was far from expecting ever to come back 
 again. How mysterious are the ways of 
 Providence, how good is God !" The car- 
 riage stopped before the door of the castle. 
 The officers of the Count and all persons at- 
 tached to his service were waiting to receive 
 him. Mary had a most flattering reception. 
 Every one evinced the greatest joy at seeing 
 her again, and congratulated her on having 
 been recognised so manifestly innocent. The 
 old judge who had condemned her took her 
 hand quite with paternal tenderness, asked 
 her pardon in the presence of all the assistants, 
 showed his gratitude to the Count and Countess 
 for the nobleness of their proceeding in the
 
 140 THE BASKET 
 
 reparation of the injustice committed, and as- 
 sured them all that he had to reproach himself 
 with this misfortune more than%ny one, and 
 that he was willing to do every thing in his ' 
 power to acquit his debt. The following day 
 Mary rose very early. What had awakened 
 her so early was partly joy and partly the 
 light of the sun which shone brightly into her 
 ^chamber. She ran to visit the paternal dweli- 
 'ing, and also the garden. On her way she 
 met only countenances expressive of gayety. 
 A crowd of young people, to whom in their in- 
 fancy she had been in the habit of giving 
 flowers, had grown so tall that she was quite 
 astonished. The old farmer and his wife, who 
 had now been some time settled on the place, 
 came out to meet her, kissed her affectionately, 
 and told her how happily and contentedly they 
 lived. Tears of joy were in the farmer's 
 eyes. " When," said he, " you were without 
 a home, we received you under our roof ; 
 and now, when we were turned out of our own 
 house, you give us this charming habitation in 
 which we may spend our declining days." 
 " Yes," said his wife, " it is always well to 
 be obliging and hospitable. Vie never know 
 how soon we will receive it again." " Well, 
 well !" answered the old man, " we did not 
 think of that then ; that was not our object. 
 However, the maxim is not the less true. Da 
 good to others, and you will always find some
 
 OF FLOWERS. 141 
 
 to do good to you" Mary entered the house. 
 The sight of the room, of the place where her 
 father used to sit, awoke in her breast sad re- 
 collections. She walked round the garden. 
 She kissed every tree planted by her father, as 
 if in each one she saw again an old acquaint- 
 ance ; but she stopped particularly before the 
 little apple-tree, then all covered with beautiful 
 flowers. " Alas !" said she, " of what little 
 consequence is the life of man on earth ! He 
 dies, and the little bushes survive him." She 
 rested under the arbour where she had passed 
 so many happy hours with her father. While 
 she looked around in this garden, which he 
 had cultivated by the sweat of his brow, she 
 thought she still saw him. Tears streamed 
 from her eyes at this recollection. But one 
 thought rendered her calm and soothed her 
 heart; it was that he inhabited a happier abode, 
 and that he was reaping the harvest of the 
 seeds he had sown in this world. Every 
 spring Mary went to spend some weeks at 
 the castle. Cherished and honoured by every 
 one, she there spent the happiest life, serving 
 God and endeavouring to do good. She loved 
 particularly to visit among the children of the 
 village, and to talk to them of their Saviour ; 
 and she had the happiness of believing that 
 many of them, under her instrumentality, gave 
 their hearts to God. Thus she spent her life 
 in doing good.
 
 142 THE BASKET 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 The Tomb of Mary's Father. 
 
 THE tomb of James had been finished ac- 
 cording to the promise which Amelia had 
 made to Mary on the grave of the good man. 
 It was a monument of elegant simplicity, con- 
 structed of white marble, and ornamented with 
 an epitaph in gilded letters. To the name of 
 the deceased, to his age, and to his double 
 profession of gardener and basket-maker, no- 
 thing had been added but these words of 
 Jesus, which certainly deserve to be engraven 
 in letters of gold. " I am the resurrection 
 and the life ; he that believeth in me, though 
 he were dead, yet shall he live." Underneath 
 a skilful workman had cut the figure of the 
 basket which the Lord had made use of in 
 delivering Maiy from her trouble on the grave 
 even of her father. Amelia had drawn the 
 basket after having had it filled with the most 
 beautiful flowers by the hand of Mary, and 
 the drawing, which was a striking resemblance, 
 was given to the artist. Underneath the 
 basket was written -this maxim of the holy 
 Scripture, a maxim well worthy of reflecting 
 on. " All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness 
 thereof as the flower of the field. The grass 
 withereth, the flower fadeth, but the word of 
 the Lord endureth for ever." It was with
 
 OF FLOWERS. 143 
 
 great pleasure that the good minister of Erlen- 
 brunn, Mary's early friend, had this monu- 
 ment put in its place. The dark foliage of 
 the fir-trees contributed to relieve this tomb, 
 which presented to the eye an uncommonly 
 beautiful aspect ; and when the rose-tree, 
 growing on the grave, was in bloom, and 
 the green branches covered with roses, some 
 half open, others entirely blown, bent over 
 the marble, which was of a dazzling whiteness, 
 nothing could be prettier. This monument 
 was the most beautiful ornament of the rural 
 grave-yard, and the most remarkable curiosity 
 of the village. The good minister never re- 
 ceived any strangers without carrying them to 
 see this monument. Every one observed that 
 it was a good idea to have put a basket of 
 flowers on the tomb of a man who was at the 
 same time a gardener and a basket-maker. 
 " Ah !" the minister would say, " it is some- 
 thing better than a good idea. This basket 
 of flowers tells more than you believe, and it is 
 not without some reason that our villagers 
 look upon it as a symbol of a most touching 
 story. Yes, this ground on which we tread 
 has been well bathed with tears." Then he 
 never failed to relate to attentive strangers the 
 history of the basket of flowers, and conclude 
 his recital with this grand truth which the 
 whole story is intended to illustrate : PIETY TO 
 
 GOD AND TRUTH TOWARDS MEN SHALL NEVER
 
 144 BASKET OF FLOWERS. 
 
 FAIL TO TRIUMPH OVER THE MALICE OF THE 
 
 WORST OF FOES. Let our readers be persuaded 
 that, under all circumstances, it is best to do 
 as Mary did : fear God, reverence your earth- 
 ly parents, never tell a falsehood, put full 
 trust in God, give the heart to Jesus, live 
 happy, and die with the sure prospect of 
 eternal glory. 
 
 THE END. 

 
 University of California Library 
 Los Angeles 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below.
 
 P232 
 S34bE 
 
 The basket of 
 flowers i 
 
 PZ32 
 
 SMbfi 
 
 1833