One rosebud, indeed, she had selected for herself from the rich mass of flowers; for Kenyon well remembered recognizing it in her bosom when he last saw her at his studio.
"That little part of my great love she took," said he to himself.

"The remainder she would have devoted to Heaven; but has left it withering in the sun and wind.

Ah! Hilda, Hilda, had you given me a right to watch over you, this evil had not come!" "Be not downcast, signorino mio," said the Roman matron, in response to the deep sigh which struggled out of Kenyon's breast.

"The dear little maiden, as we see, has decked yonder blessed shrine as devoutly as I myself, or any Other good Catholic woman, could have done.

It is a religious act, and has more than the efficacy of a prayer.