The conductor was not a hot-tempered man, but he liked order and
method in everything. Therefore he rang for old Louisa, and since
he made his first fifty remonstrances always in a very mild tone,
he spoke kindly but firmly to her, as she put her head through the
door.

"Louisa," he said, "you have given me lukewarm milk."

"Oh! no, sir," replied Louisa, "it was quite cold, it must have
got warm in standing."

"Then you must have had a fire in the room; it's very warm here
this morning."

No, Louisa had not had a fire; and she retired into the kitchen,
very much hurt.

He forgave her for the milk. But a look round the sitting-room
made him feel very depressed. I must tell you that he had built a
little private altar in a corner, near the piano, which consisted
of a small table with two silver candlesticks, a large photograph
of a young woman, and a tall, gold-edged champagne glass. This
glass--it was the glass he had used on his wedding-day, and he was
a widower now--always contained a red rose in memory of and as an
offering to her who once had been the sunshine of his life. Whether
it was summer or winter, there was always a rose; and in the winter
time it lasted a whole week, that is to say if he trimmed the stem
occasionally and put a little salt into the water. Now, he had put
a fresh rose into the glass only last night, and to-day it was faded,