As I thus looked down into the heart of the flowers, I caught a glimpse of something white folded among the green leaves.

Edith's back was turned as she smoothed the folds of an India muslin dress that lay upon the bed.

I drew out the paper with a tremulous hand, and read these few pencilled words:-- "Sweet flower girl of the north! be not cast down.

The most noxious wind changes not the purity of marble; neither can an idle breath shake the confidence born of unsullied innocence." These words pencilled by his own hand, were addressed to _me_.

They were embalmed in fragrance and imbedded in bloom, and henceforth they were engraven on tablets on which the hand of man had never before traced a character, which the whole world might not peruse.
Oh, what magic there was in those little words! Slander had lost its sting, and malice its venom, at least for the present hour.