count on the perpetual reign of their ancient
(and reformed) Lord Mayor and common
councilmen.

MY THREE ROSES.

YEARS since, when we were children, my
mother took for the summer one of the many
charming châlets by the Lake of Geneva. It
peeped from a mass of flowers like a toy-house
in the centre of a bouquet. The little hamlet
in the vicinity seemed built up at random, within
a garden. Even the old church, perched high
up on the hills, was surrounded with flowering
shrubs. It was a kindly neighbourhood, and
all the residents visited my mother on the spot.
Out of their families came forth my three especial
playfellows, Rose Sebille, Rose Grahame,
and Rose Fonnereau. As I write their names,
they steal, with my departed youth, like spirits
to my side. Soon I hear their gay singing,
and the little feet that never walked except to
church pattering and dancing up the garden
ways.

I, Frank, was the only representative of my
sex among this merry band, was respected as a
great authority and infallible referee, and had
my own way in everything. Our favourite walk
was to the cemetery, than which no palace
garden was ever richer in sweet flowers. Long
before we approached its sacred precincts, the
air was laden with their fragrance. There was
nothing melancholy to us in that delightful
garden of rest. We had never seen death. We
only felt we should be quiet, and not noisy and
playful there, as in the presence of something
holy. It was a kind of church to us, and while
we reverenced it as much, I am afraid we
enjoyed it more.

Sometimes we would come suddenly upon
black prostrate figures, still and quiet like
everything around; and the graves at which we had
noticed these mute mourners had an especial
interest, for the time.

Our French nurse, however, introduced us to
a tomb that had a melancholy charm beyond all
others. Until we came, no flower or garland
had ever been placed upon it. Only a solitary
willow sapling had been planted there, and that
had died at once. There was a name, known to
the world, and even to us; a date, and, deeply
cut in larger letters, the single word
"Proscrit."

I remember that we all stood weeping by his
grave, as the nurse related to us the patriot's
story. All that summer, we laid fresh garlands
on his tomb, and, whether he knew it or not,
never failed to wave an adieu to him as we left
the gates.

That bright summer passed but too quickly
away. We were often on the lake, sailing past
Chillon, our great delight being to fraternise,
by friendly signs, with the prisoners therein
confined. There was something pleasantly
mysterious in their dark figures, half concealed
behind the iron bars. Once we had a great alarm.
In apparent answer to our amicable demonstrations,
a formidable-looking instrument was protruded
from the barred casement. Were they
going to fire upon us? No. Our boatman
hastened to assure us it was only a fishing-rod,
the use of which was permitted by a paternal
government, to pass away the time. But at no
time did we ever observe a trout ascending to
that lofty fishing-bank.

Thus feeling, as I am sure we did, the beauty
and grandeur of the scenes surrounding us,
though without any artistic appreciation of them,
we whiled away that happy summer, until a
certain crispness and flippancy in the breeze that
came from the neighbouring hills, reminded us
that summer delights were over, and autumn
begun.

My mother prolonged her stay as much as
possible; but, one morning, behold our rose-
trees bending under pure white robes of
snow! This was a hint not to be mistaken.
In three days we were to go. We did
what we could. We sullenly made a snow
man, and so successfully that we deemed him
worthy of the name of William Tell, and left
him there, gazing with his black pebble eyes
towards the crags and peaks he loved so well.

For ourselves, we were to go to a spot where
snow was never seen, and there was sunshine
for my mother the whole winter long. Our last
days at Clarens were somewhat sad. I had to
separate from my playfellows, for my suggestion
to take the three Roses with us was overruled
by the respective parents of those flowers, as
well as my own. We made a last pilgrimage
together to the grave of the "Proscrit," and
deposited thereon a wreath of evergreens of
prodigious size, while the three Roses and my
little sister—Rose Mary (who was, however,
too small to be regarded as a regular Rose)—
mingled their tears, and those who were to
remain pledged themselves to remember the
"Proscrit" for our sake, as well as his own.
With this unselfish bond we parted, crying (I
will confess it) till we could cry no more, and
of the many partings since, I can recal but one
as bitter.

The only male friend I had left at Clarens
was the young doctor of the village who had
attended my mother, and often took me as his
companion in his long professional drives or
walks among the hills. He was full of life, as
merry as a boy, and glad of any excuse to run
races and jump ditches with me.

I corresponded with him after our separation,
at first in round text and a succession of abrupt
sentences, always ending with "my love to the
Roses." As time went on, I had more
subjects of interest to dilate upon. His replies
had a great charm for me, and, when my mother
died, his was the one letter that broke the dull
apathy of grief into which I had fallen, and
taught me a healthier sorrow.

"You are ill," he said, in his last letter; "I
believe I can cure you. Leave London to-
morrow, and, accidents apart, be with me on
Thursday."