And in this time of her trouble they were even willing to do something to comfort her. At twilight, just after the seeds were sown over the grave of the flowers, they came, bringing two little feeble plants, which they had found in a moist spot, under the shelter of a rock. The damp earth still clung to their roots. These were replanted in a hidden corner, and watered daily. One died. The other lived and grew and blossomed. And its flower was a delicate white lily.
Myrtle, one morning, found Rosebud bending sadly over this flower, scarcely raising her eyes at his approach.
“I think it must,” said she, at last, looking up, and smiling through her tears.
“Must what?” asked Myrtle.
“Must mean,” said Rosebud, “that she is yet alive.”
Great was the surprise of the old woman at finding the cage empty, her bird flown. The bolt was secured, the iron door locked, the key safe, nothing out of the way except—the prisoners.
Thinking they must be concealed near, she looked in the woods about, beat the bushes, got tangled in the thicket, scratched by the briers, tore her garments, but did not give up the search until long after sunrise in the morning.
It was from this vain search, that, weary, angry, and much alarmed for her own safety, she arrived home to find the children gathered about the flower-garden, as has been told.
And there was very good reason to be alarmed; for the Governor of the land, as soon as he knew of Bertha’s escape, sent his officers, bidding them to seize the old woman, and to throw her into that very same rocky cage. The children were in dismay at seeing granny carried off in such a manner. None could guess the reason except Rosebud; and she told only Myrtle. It was one pleasant day, when they were off sailing, that she related to him the whole history.