“Have you flowers in the basket also, sir?” she courteously asked.
He started, and blushed with surprise and agitation.
“Yes,” he said, and opened the little basket with cold and shaking fingers, displaying his pitiful store.
“What is your price for them all?” the lady asked.
He hesitated, still trembling. “If you would kindly tell me what you think they are worth,” he said. “I do not know. My daughter made them when she went to school.”
“Does she make them now?” the lady asked, taking both rose and basket from his hands.
A look of woe replaced his troubled smile. “She is dead!” he said with a faint moan.
“Have you other children?” was the next question.
“No. My daughter left a little girl who lives with us, my wife and me.”
“Will you be satisfied with this?” the lady asked, and gave a larger sum than the old man had dreamed of asking. “If you think they are worth more, please tell me so.”