Arch Trevlyn had had a good day. Business had been brisk. The rain had
fallen steadily since daybreak, and the street-crossings in New York were
ankle deep in mud. The little street-sweeper's arms ached fearfully, but
his pocket was full of pennies, interspersed with an occasional
half-dime.

The clouds were breaking in the west, and a gleam of sunshine gilded the
tall tower of St. John's. Arch shouldered his broom, and whistled a merry
tune as he took his way homeward. His bright dark eyes sparkled as he
thought how the sight of his earnings would cheer his feeble mother. She
could have tea now, with real milk and some sugar in it, and an orange,
too. Only yesterday she was wishing she had an orange.

Arch's way led past a horticultural store, and his eye wandered longingly
over the display of flowers in the window. He must have just one wee
white rose, because, only the Sabbath before, while he sat at his
mother's feet, she had wept in telling him about the sweet roses that
used to grow under the window of the little country cottage where her
happy youth had been spent.

The white rose would be like bringing back to her ever so little a bit
of the happy past. It could not cost much, and Arch felt wealthy as a
prince. He stepped into the store and asked the price of a white rose.
The clerk answered him roughly:

"Get out of the store, you young rascal! You want to steal something!"

"I am not a thief, sir," said the boy, proudly, his sallow cheeks
crimsoning hotly. "I want a rose for my mother. I guess I can pay for