There lived once a great queen, in whose garden were found at all seasons the most splendid flowers, and from every land in the world. She specially¹ loved roses, and therefore she possessed² the most beautiful varieties of this flower, from the wild hedge-rose, with its apple-scented leaves, to the splendid Provence rose. They grew near the shelter of the walls, wound themselves round columns and window-frames, crept along passages and over the ceilings of the halls. They were of every fragrance³ and color.

But care and sorrow dwelt within these halls; the queen lay upon a sick bed, and the doctors declared that she must die. "There is still one thing that could save her," said one of the wisest among them. "Bring her the loveliest rose in the world; one which exhibits the purest and brightest love, and if it is brought to her before her eyes close, she will not die."

Then from all parts came those who brought roses that bloomed in every garden, but they were not the right sort. The flower must be one from the garden of love; but which of the roses there showed forth⁴ the highest and purest love? The poets sang of this rose, the loveliest in the world, and each named one which he considered worthy⁵ of that title; and intelligence of what was required was sent far and wide to every heart that beat with love; to every class, age, and condition.

"No one has yet named the flower," said the wise man. "No one has pointed⁶ out the spot where it blooms in all its splendor⁷. It is not a rose from the coffin⁸ of Romeo and Juliet, or from the grave of Walburg, though these roses will live in everlasting⁹ song. It is not one of the roses which

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