the heaven and the earth, the trees and the flowers, in the hopes of
finding some hints for renewing the conversation; but the more
anxiously they sought them, the more difficult did it seem to find
what they sought; and in this painful embarrassment did two whole
precious minutes elapse.

"Ah, what a beautiful flower!" suddenly cried Rosabella, in order to
break the silence, then stooped and plucked a violet with an
appearance of the greatest eagerness, though, in fact, nothing at
that moment could have been more a matter of indifference.

"It is a very beautiful flower, indeed," gravely observed Flodoardo,
and was out of all patience with himself for having made so flat a
speech.

"Nothing can surpass this purple," continued Rosabella; "red and
blue so happily blended, that no painter can produce so perfect a
union."

"Red and blue--the one the symbol of happiness, the other of
affection. Ah, Rosabella! how enviable will be that man's lot on
whom your hand shall bestow such a flower. Happiness and affection
are not more inseparably united than the red and blue which purple
that violet."

"You seem to attach a value to the flower of which it is but little
deserving."

"Might I but know on whom Rosabella will one day bestow what that
flower expresses. Yet, this is a subject which I have no right to