With deft fingers Zoe was weaving a beautiful wreath.
“Oh, Zoe, how lovely!” exclaimed Rosie. “It is to be mamma’s crown, isn’t it?”
“Yes; and everything in it has a meaning; these laurel leaves are to say to mamma, and everybody, that she is the glory of this house; this calla lily, that she is beautiful (though of course no one who looks at her can help seeing that without being told); this sweet alyssum, that she has worth beyond beauty; this white jessamine, that she is amiability itself; the yellow, that she has grace and elegance; this china rose means the same; this moss rose, superior merit; this myrtle, that we all love her dearly, dearly!”
“Oh, what a nice story they tell!” exclaimed Rosie; “the wreath has my entire approval,” she added, with a merry laugh.
“What a relief to my mind!” said Zoe, joining in the laugh. “We’re going to make a perfect bower of the dining-room, the only room in the house that will be much used by the company to-day.”
“That’s a nice idea; we must have flowers everywhere to-day in mamma’s honor. I have come to select some for the adornment of her person.”
“This is for that very purpose,” said Zoe, holding up her nearly completed wreath, and regarding it with satisfaction.
“Yes, I know; but I want a knot of flowers for her throat, and another for her belt. Roses, lilies, and heliotrope.”
“Grandma Elsie is versed in the language of flowers, isn’t she?” asked Evelyn.
“Yes, indeed!” answered Rosie.