the bed where it had grown. The sight of this misfortune seemed to Lucia
almost more than she could bear; she sat down upon a garden-seat close
by, and looked at her poor rose-tree as if its fate were to be a type of
her own. She recollected a thousand trifles connected with it; how she
had disputed with Mr. Percy about its beauty, arguing that it was less
perfect than some others, because he had said it was more so; she
remembered how from that very tree she had gathered a blossom for him
the first day he came to the Cottage. Then, in her fanciful mood, she
reproached herself for letting her unfortunate favourite speak to her
only of him, and forgetting that it was Maurice who had obtained it for
her, who had planted it, and would be sorry for its destruction. She
rose, and tried to lift the broken tree; but as she leaned over it,
Maurice himself passed through the wicket, and came towards her. She
turned to meet him as if it were quite natural that he should come just
then.

"Oh, Maurice, look! I am so sorry."

"Your pet rose-tree? But perhaps it will recover yet."

He raised it carefully, while she stood looking on.

"It is not much broken, after all. I will plant it again; and with
plenty of support and shade, I think it will do."

Lucia flew to bring her spade. She held the tree, while Maurice
carefully arranged its roots and piled the earth about them; the
scattered leaves were picked up from the bed, and a kind of tent made
with matting over the invalid; at last she found time to say,