The little bed chamber was fragrant with the perfume of flowers.

A cluster of big Jacqueminot roses drooped their velvety petaled heads over the sides of the blue and white pitcher on the bureau.

Mother loved flowers and I frequently brought her the old fashioned posies from Dorinda's little garden or wild blossoms from the woods and fields.

But roses such as these were beyond my reach now-a-days.

They grew in greenhouses, not in the gardens of country people.
Mother did not move as I entered and I thought she was asleep.