[The schoolmistress came down with a rose in her hair,--a fresh June rose.

She has been walking early; she has brought back two others,--one on each cheek.
I told her so, in some such pretty phrase as I could muster for the occasion.

Those two blush-roses I just spoke of turned into a couple of damasks.

I suppose all this went through my mind, for this was what I went on to say:-] I love the damask rose best of all.

The flowers our mothers and sisters used to love and cherish, those which grow beneath our eaves and by our doorstep, are the ones we always love best.