Was it their subtile fragrance, or this kiss, or both together, which seemed for one moment to recall the departing soul?
He looked up; it was his last look, and it took in the sweet woman who had been so gentle and so loving to him, and the flowers in her hand.
His face kindled with a great joy. A hero might have looked like that who had died for his country, or a man who had given his life joyfully for child or wife.
Johnny Stone had loved one creature well, and that creature had loved tea-roses. What could life have held so sweet as the death that found him when he was striving to give her her heart’s desire?
MY VAGRANT.
We were in pursuit of Laura’s dressmaker, and had just rung the bell at her door, when a little boy presented himself, and, standing on the lower step, uplifted a pathetic pair of blue eyes, and a small tin cup held in a little grimy hand. A large basket was on one arm; and round his neck was one of those great printed placards, such as the blind men wear who sit at the street corners. Laura’s purse was always fuller than mine; and she was extracting a bit of scrip from it, while I bent my near-sighted eyes on the boy’s label. Could it be that I read aright? I looked again. No, I was not mistaken. It read, in great, staring letters—