The Basket of Flowers

The simple story which is told in this little book treats of things which happened a long time ago in a foreign country, where the manners and customs are widely different from our own. It is necessary to explain this at the beginning, because the reader will meet with incidents in the narrative which would otherwise seem strange and inconsistent. Two lessons which the story teaches, however, may be learned in all countries.

The first is that the human heart has from the beginning been full of sin, producing, for the most part, evil fruit, which results in misery; and in the second place, that there is only one remedy for this state of the soul, the remedy of God's Holy Spirit, which, wherever it enters, produces the fruits of righteousness and perfect peace. It is because we believe that the study of these opposing principles as exhibited in the experience of others may be profitable to young readers, that the story of the Basket of Flowers is now presented.

James Rode, who, with his daughter Mary, forms the subject of our tale, lived over one hundred years ago in the village of Eichbourg, in Germany. When he was very young his parents sent him to be trained as a gardener in the beautiful grounds of the Count of Eichbourg. James was a bright, intelligent lad, fond of work, and of an amiable disposition, and he soon made himself a favourite with the people among whom he associated. His happy genial disposition and his readiness to oblige endeared him to all with whom he came in contact. The secret of James' character lay deeper than mere disposition. He had early given his heart to the Lord Jesus Christ, and the amiable qualities which he now displayed were the fruits of the Holy Spirit which had been implanted in him. But it was not only among his companions that James was well liked. He was a favourite with the Count's children, and so modest and unassuming was his behaviour that he was sometimes allowed to be in the Castle with them, and to share in the lessons which they got.

Being of an intelligent turn of mind, James profited by all the advantages which his position gave him, and, after his engagement was completed, the Count offered him a well-paid position in his large household at Vienna. It was a temptation for James, who had the ambition common to young men, and, but for one thing, he would have gladly accepted his master's offer. The Count was a kind man, but he was not a Christian, and God was not honoured in his household. James knew that if he took the place in his house, he might be asked to do things which as a Christian he believed to be wrong; and so he decided to refuse the offer, tempting as it was, and to remain in the humble position in which he had been born. The Count was not offended with James for his decision; and to show his respect for him he gave him an easy lease of a little property, consisting of a cottage, a well-stocked orchard, and a kitchen garden.

By and by James married a young woman, whose principles, like his own, were deeply religious, and together they lived in comfort and harmony many years. Then children came to brighten their life, but one after another was taken away, and at last only Mary remained, whose history this story is mainly occupied in telling.

When James Rode was a little over sixty years of age his wife died. Mary was now five years old, and a fine, beautiful girl. The neighbours were foolish enough sometimes to call her pretty to her face, and, although this was a dangerous thing to do, it had not the effect of spoiling her. Besides being beautiful in face, Mary had a beautiful character, and was modest and obedient, and possessed unbounded love for her father. When she came to be fifteen years of age, she became her father's housekeeper, and so thorough and constant were her habits of cleanliness that the kitchen utensils shone brightly enough to be easily mistaken for new.

We have already informed our readers that her father, James Rode, earned his living as a gardener. Twice a week he carried the vegetables and fruit which he cultivated to the nearest market-town. But, while the growing of fruits and vegetables had to be looked after in order to secure his subsistence, his greatest delight was in the cultivation of flowers; and in this pleasant task Mary assisted him every hour which she could spare from the work of the house. She counted the hours devoted to this task among the happiest of her life, for her father had the art of turning labour into pleasure by his interesting and entertaining conversation. To Mary, who had grown up, as it were, in the midst of plants, there had come a natural taste for flowers, and the garden was to her a little world. She was never at a loss for a delightful occupation, for every hour which she had at her disposal was spent in cultivating the young plants with the utmost care.

Specially did she find pleasure in studying the buds of every strange species. Her young imagination delighted in picturing what kind of flowers they would become; and so impatient was she to see her expectations fulfilled, that she was hardly able to wait until the flowers had unfolded. When the flower for which she had waited long appeared in all its beauty, the sight filled her with a strange joy. In truth, there was not a day which did not bring some new pleasure to Mary's heart. Sometimes it was by a stranger passing the garden and stopping to admire the beauty of the flowers. The children of the neighbourhood, as they passed on their way to school, never failed to peep through the hedge, and were generally rewarded by Mary with some little present of flowers as a token of her goodwill.

James, as a wise father, knew how to direct the taste of his daughter towards the most noble ends. Often he used to say, "Let others spend their money for jewels and silks and other adornments; I will spend mine for flower-seeds. Silks and satins and jewels cannot procure for our children so pure a pleasure as these beautiful exhibitions of the wisdom and benevolence of God."

In the beauty of the various flowers which adorned their garden, in the charming variety of their shapes, in the perfection of their proportions, in the glory of their colours, and in the sweetness of their perfumes, he taught Mary to see and admire the power and wisdom and goodness of God. It was his custom to begin each day with God by spending the first hours of the morning in prayer; and, in order to accomplish this without neglecting his work, it was his habit to rise early. In the beautiful days of spring and summer, James would lead Mary to an arbour in the garden, and, while the birds sang their joyous songs, and the dew sparkled on the grass and flowers, he delighted to talk with his daughter of God, whose bounty sent the sun and the dew, and brought forth the beauty and life of the world. It was here that he first instilled into Mary's mind the idea of God as the tender Father of mankind, whose love was manifested not only in all the beautiful works of nature, which were round them, but above all in the gift of Jesus Christ. It was in this arbour that James had the happiness of seeing Mary's heart gradually unfold to the reception of the truth.

Once in the early part of March, when with shining eyes and bounding feet she brought him the first violet, he said, "Let this beautiful flower serve to you as an emblem of humility and sweetness, by its modest colour, its disposition to flourish in hidden places, and the delicate perfume which it sends forth. May you, my dear child, be like the violet, modest in your demeanour, careless of gaudy clothing, and seeking to do good without making any fuss about it."

At the time when the lilies and roses were in full bloom and when the garden was resplendent with beautiful flowers, the old man, seeing his daughter filled with joy, pointed to a lily unfolding in the rays of the morning sun. "See, in this lily, my daughter, the symbol of innocence. Its leaves are finer than richest satin, and its whiteness equals that of the driven snow. Happy is the daughter whose heart also is pure, for remember the words, 'The pure in heart shall see God.' The more pure the colour, the more difficult to preserve its purity. The slightest spot can spoil the flower of the lily, and so one word can rob the mind of its purity. Let the rose," said he, pointing to that flower, "be the image of modesty. The blush of a modest girl is more beautiful than that of the rose."

Mary's father then made a bouquet of lilies and roses, and, giving it to Mary, he said, "These are brothers and sisters, whose beauty no other flowers can equal. Innocence and modesty are twin sisters, which cannot be separated. Yes, my dear child, God in His goodness has given to modesty, innocence for a sister and companion, in order that she might be warned of the approach of danger. Be always modest, and you will be always virtuous. Oh, if the will of God be so, I pray that you may be enabled to preserve in your heart the purity of the lily!"

One ornament of their garden, which James and his daughter most dearly prized, was a dwarf apple-tree little higher than a rose-bush, which grew in a small round bed in the middle of the garden. The old man had planted it on his daughter's birthday, and every year it gave them a harvest of beautiful golden yellow apples spotted with red. One season it seemed specially promising, and its blossom was more luxurious than ever. Every morning Mary examined it with new delight. One morning she came as usual, but what a change had taken place! The frost had withered all the flowers, which were now brown and yellow and fast being shrivelled up by the sun. Poor Mary's sensitive feelings were so affected that she burst into tears, but her father turned the incident to good account.

"Look, my child," said he, "as the frost spoils the apple-blossoms, so wicked pleasures spoil the beauty of youth. Oh, my dear Mary, tremble at the thought of going aside from the path of right. If the time should ever come when the delightful hopes which I have had for your future should vanish, I should shed tears more bitter than you do now. I should not enjoy another hour of pleasure, and my grey hairs would be brought with sorrow to the grave." At the mere thought of such a calamity the old man could not keep back his tears, and his words of tender solicitude made a deep impression on Mary's heart.

Brought up under the care of a father so wise and loving, Mary grew up like the flowers of her garden, fresh as the rose, pure like the lily, modest as the violet, and full of promise for the future, as a beautiful shrub in the time of flourishing.

When James viewed his beautiful garden, with its luxuriant flowers and its prolific fruits, which so well repaid his constant care, it was with a feeling of satisfaction and gratitude. But this feeling was nothing compared with the joy he felt when he saw his daughter, as the reward of his pious efforts to train her in the love of God, bringing forth the most precious fruits of the Holy Spirit.

One day, early in the charming month of May, Mary went into a wood near her home to get some branches and twigs of the willow and hazel. When her father was not busily engaged in the garden, he occupied his time in making baskets of all sorts, and particularly lady's work-baskets. While he busied himself in this way, Mary read to him from the Bible or some good book, or, as her father worked, he talked to her about the highest matters.

While Mary was gathering the materials for her father's basket-work, she found some beautiful specimens of lily-of-the-valley; and, gathering sufficient of the flowers, she made two bunches, one for her father and the other for herself. After she had finished her work, and when she was returning home through a meadow, she met the Countess of Eichbourg and her daughter Amelia who were taking an afternoon walk. The ladies spent the greater part of their time in the city, but occasionally they lived for a few days at the Castle.

Some of the most important circumstances of life spring from apparently trifling events. In the case of Mary, this accidental meeting with the Countess and her daughter proved the beginning of the painful circumstances of this story. But God overrules all events, and this tale gives abundant proof that all things work together for good to them that love God.

As the ladies came near Mary, she stood a little on one side to let them pass; but when they saw the beautiful bunches of lilies in her hand they stopped to admire them, and wanted to buy one. Mary respectfully declined to sell her flowers, but she begged that the ladies would each accept a bunch. They were so struck with the girl's unaffected grace and modesty, that they gladly took her little offering, and Amelia requested her to gather more and bring them to the Castle every day for the rest of the season.

Mary faithfully performed this duty, and every morning while the flowers were in bloom she carried a bunch of lilies to the young lady. By and by an intimacy, which was something more than ordinary between two girls of such widely different positions, sprang up between Mary and Amelia. They were nearly of the same age, their tastes were similar, and it is not surprising that the acquaintance begun in a chance manner developed into a sincere friendship.

The anniversary of Amelia's birthday drew near, and Mary determined to make her some little present. She had given her so many bunches of flowers, that she puzzled her brain to think of some new gift. During the winter her father had been making a beautiful basket, which he intended to give to Mary herself. It was the most finished piece of work he had ever done, and he had worked on it a design of the village in which they lived. Mary's idea now was to fill this basket with flowers, and to offer it to the young Countess as her birthday present. Her father readily fell in with the plan, and added a finishing touch to it by weaving Amelia's name in on one side of the basket and the Count's coat-of-arms on the other.

The long-expected day arrived, and early in the morning Mary gathered the freshest and most beautiful roses, the richest pinks, and other flowers of beautiful colours. She picked out some green branches full of leaves, and arranged them in the basket, so that all the colours, though perfectly distinct, were sweetly and delicately blended. A light garland composed of rosebuds and moss was passed around the basket, and Amelia's name could be distinctly read enclosed in a coronet of forget-me-nots. The basket when completed was a thing of uncommon beauty.

When Mary went to the Castle with her basket-present, the young Countess Amelia was sitting at her toilet. Her maid was with her busily engaged on making her young mistress's head-dress for the birthday feast. Mary shyly offered her present, adding the best wishes of her heart for the young Countess's happiness. Amelia received the present with unaffected pleasure, and in an impulsive manner she warmly expressed her delight, as she viewed first of all the charming flowers with which the basket was filled, and examined more carefully the beautiful design of the basket itself.

"Mary shyly offered her present."

See page 15.

"Dear Mary," she said, "why, you have robbed your garden to make me this present. As for the basket, I have never seen anything so beautiful in all my life. Come, we will go and show it to my mother." Taking Mary affectionately by the hand, the girls went together to the apartments of the Countess. "See, mother," cried Amelia, "of all my birthday presents, surely nothing can equal the one I have received from Mary. Never have I seen so beautiful a basket, and nowhere can you find such beautiful flowers." The Countess was equally pleased with Mary's present, although she expressed herself more moderately. "What a charming basket!" she said, "and its flowers, how beautiful! They are yet wet with dew. The basket of flowers does credit to the taste of Mary but more to the kindness of her heart." Asking Mary to remain in the room, she made a sign to Amelia to follow her into another apartment.

"Amelia," said the Countess, "Mary must not be permitted to go away without some suitable return. What have you to give her?"

Amelia paused for a moment's reflection. "I think," she replied, "one of my dresses would be a most acceptable gift. For instance, if you will permit me, my dear mother, that one with the red and white flowers on the deep green ground. It is almost new; I have worn it but once. It is a little too short for me, but it will almost fit Mary, and she can arrange it herself. She is so handy with her needle. If, therefore, you do not think the present too valuable--"

The Countess interrupted her. "Too valuable! certainly not. When you wish to give anything it ought to be something good and serviceable. The green robe with the flowers will be very appropriate for Mary."

"Go now, my dear children," said the Countess, when they returned to the room where Mary was, "take good care of the flowers, that they may not fade before dinner. I want the guests to admire the basket also, which will be the most beautiful ornament on our table."

Amelia ran to her room with Mary, and told Juliette, her maid, to bring the dress with the white and red flowers.

"Do you wish to wear that dress to-day, miss?" said her maid.

"No," said Amelia, "I intend to make a present of it to Mary."

"Give that dress away!" replied Juliette hastily. "Does the Countess know?"

"You forget yourself, I think, Juliette," said Amelia with dignity. "Bring me the dress, and give yourself no trouble about the rest."

Juliette turned away hastily, her face burning with anger, and her heart full of spite. Pulling the door of the wardrobe open, she took from it the young Countess's dress. "Oh, I could tear it to pieces," she said passionately. "This sly Mary has already wormed her way into the affections of my young mistress, and now she steals from me this dress which ought to have been mine when the Countess had done with it. I could tear the eyes out of this little flower-girl; but some day I will be revenged." For the time being, however, she had to suppress her anger, and, taking the dress on her arm, she returned to her mistress and gave her the dress with a pleasant air.

"Dear Mary," said Amelia, "many of the presents which I have had to-day have cost more money than your basket, but none of them have given me so much pleasure. Will you take this dress from me as a token of my affection, and carry my best wishes to your good old father?"

Mary was not a vain girl, but her eyes sparkled at the sight of the beautiful dress, which surpassed anything she had ever dreamed of possessing. After warm thanks, she kissed the hand of the young Countess and left the Castle.

Amelia's maid continued her work in silence, but with jealous fury burning at her heart. The many tugs which she gave to the head-dress she was preparing made Amelia at length inquire-

"Are you angry, Juliette?"

"I should be silly indeed, miss," answered Juliette; "to be angry because you choose to be generous."

"That is a very sensible answer, Juliette," replied Amelia, "I hope you may feel just as sensible."

Meantime Mary ran home to her father to show her new dress. The good old man, while pleased at his daughter's pleasure, could not help feeling a little anxiety when he saw the present. "I would much rather, my child," he said, "that you had not taken the basket to the young Countess, but it cannot be helped now. I fear that this valuable present will but rouse the jealousy of some of our neighbours, and, what would be still worse, that it may make you vain. Take care, my dear Mary, that you fall not into this great evil. No costly and beautiful garments so much adorn a young girl as modesty and good manners. It is the Bible that says the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit is in the sight of God of great price."

Shortly after Mary had left the Castle the Countess missed a valuable diamond ring. No one had been in the room where she had left it but Mary, and it is not surprising that suspicion fell upon the humble flower-girl. Calling Amelia to her, the Countess told her of her loss and of her suspicions, and bade her go to the cottage in order that she might induce Mary to restore the ring before the theft became known.

When Amelia arrived at Mary's home, the young girl was busily engaged trying on her beautiful dress. She was frightened to see the young Countess enter her little room, pale and trembling, and out of breath with her haste.

"Dear Mary," said Amelia, "what have you been doing? My mother's diamond ring, which she left lying in the room where you were, is lost. No one has been in the chamber but you. Do give it up at once, and no harm will be done."

The unexpected charge of theft stunned and frightened Mary. Earnestly she declared her innocence. She had never seen the ring, nor had she moved from the place where she stood when she entered the room. But Amelia found it impossible to believe her, and continued to urge her to give up the ring, which she said was worth a large sum of money. To be suspected of theft was bad enough, but to have her friend Amelia unwilling to believe her, made Mary burst into tears.

"Truly," she cried, "I have no ring. Never in all my life have I ventured to touch anything which did not belong to me, much less to steal. My dear father has always taught me better."

Her father, who had been at work in his garden, now came in to learn the young Countess's errand, and to him Amelia told the story. Shocked beyond measure at the charge, the old man was so overcome that he was obliged to sink into a chair.

"My dear child," he said to Mary solemnly, "to steal a ring of this price is a crime which in this country is punished with death. But this is not all. Your action is not only one for which you must account to men, but to that God who reads the heart and with whom all false denials amount to nothing. Have you forgotten His holy commandment, 'Thou shalt not steal?' Have you forgotten all the advice that I have given you? Were you tempted with the gold and the precious stones? Alas, do not deny the fact, but give back the ring to the Countess. It is the only return you can make for your crime."

"My father, oh, my father," cried Mary, weeping bitterly, "be sure, be very sure that I have not the ring. If I had even found such a ring on the road I could not have rested till I had restored it to its owner. Indeed, believe me, I have it not."

"Look at this dear young lady," said the old man, without replying to Mary's protestations, "her affection for you is so great that she wishes to save you from the hands of justice. Mary, be frank, and do not add falsehood to the crime of theft."

"My father," cried Mary, "well do you know that never in my life have I stolen even the smallest coin, and how should I take anything so valuable as the Countess's ring? I pray you, believe me; I have never in my life told you a lie."

"Mary," again said her father, "see my grey hairs. Do not bring them down with sorrow to the grave. Spare me so great an affliction. Before that God who made you, into whose presence there can come no thief, tell me if you have the ring?"

Thus adjured, Mary raised her eyes, and once more assured her father in the most solemn manner that she was innocent of the charge. The old man had put his daughter to a severe test, and now he was satisfied of her innocence.

"My child," he cried, "I do believe you. You would not dare to tell a lie in the presence of God and before this young Countess and your father. You are innocent, and therefore you may take comfort and fear nothing. There is nothing to fear on earth but sin. Prison and death are not to be compared to it. Whatever happens, we will put our trust in God. All will yet come right, for He says, 'I will make thy righteousness as the light and thy just dealings as the noonday.'"

Touched to the heart by the old man's faith, Amelia's suspicions also vanished. "Truly," she said, "when I hear you speak in this way, I believe that you have not the ring; but when I examine all the circumstances how can I help believing? My mother says she knows exactly the place where she laid it down. Not a living soul has been in the room but Mary, and as soon as she left the Castle my mother missed the ring. Who else, then, can have taken it?"

"It is impossible for me to say," replied Mary's father. "May God prepare us for a severe trial, but whatever happens," said he, turning his eyes to heaven, "I am ready. Give me but Thy grace, O Lord; it is all I ask."

"Truly," said Amelia, "I came here with a heavy heart. It will be for me the saddest birthday I have ever had. My mother has not yet spoken to any one of her loss but myself, but it will not be possible to keep the secret much longer. My father returns to the Castle at noon, and he will certainly ask her where the ring is. It was a gift to her on the day when I was born, and on every succeeding birthday she has worn it. Farewell," said Amelia, turning to Mary, "I will tell my mother that I consider you are innocent, but who will believe me?" Her eyes filled with tears, and she left the cottage with a sad heart.

After the young Countess had gone, Mary's father sat for a long time resting his head on his hand and with his eyes fixed on the ground. The tears fell down his wrinkled cheeks, and Mary, touched by his grief, threw herself at his knees and besought him to believe in her innocence.

The old man raised himself and looked for a long time in her eyes, and then said-

"Yes, Mary, you are innocent. That look, where integrity and truth are painted, cannot be the look of guilt."

"But, my father," asked Mary, "what will be the end of it? What will they do to us? I do not fear what they may do to me, but the idea that you may have to suffer on my account is intolerable."

"Have faith in God," answered her father. "Take courage. Not one hair of our heads can fall to the ground without His permission. All that happens to us is the will of God, and what more can we wish? Do not be frightened into saying anything but what is strictly true. If they threaten you, or if they hold out promises, do not depart a hair's-breadth from the truth. Keep your conscience free from offence, for a clear conscience is a soft pillow. Perhaps they will separate us, and I shall no longer be with you to console; but if this should happen cling more closely to your heavenly Father. He is a powerful protector to innocence, and no earthly power can deprive you of His strength."

Suddenly the door opened with a noise, and an officer entered, followed by two constables. Mary uttered a piercing shriek, and fell into her father's arms.

"Separate them," cried the officer angrily; "let her father also be put in custody. Set a watch on the house and garden. Make a strict search everywhere, and allow no one to enter until the sheriff has made an inventory."

Mary clung to her father with all her force, but the officers tore her from the old man's arms. In a fainting state she was carried off to prison.

The story of the lost ring had spread through the whole village of Eichbourg, and when Mary and her father were taken through the streets, the crowd pressed round them filled with curiosity. It was curious to notice how diverse were the opinions which were pronounced on the old man and his daughter. They had been kind to all, but there were some who repaid their kindness by rejoicing in their present affliction. Although they had accepted the old man's gifts, their jealousy and envy had been excited by the thought of his superior position.

"Now," they exclaimed maliciously, "we know how it is that James had always so many good things to give away. If this is what the old man and his daughter have been doing, it was easy to live in abundance and be better clothed than their honest neighbours."

It is true that most of the inhabitants of Eichbourg were sincerely sorry for James and his daughter, although many of them felt compelled to believe in Mary's guilt. Fathers and mothers were heard to say, "Who would have believed this thing of these good people? Truly it proves that the best of us are liable to fall." But there were others who were persuaded of Mary's innocence, and said, "Perhaps it is not so bad as it appears. May their innocence be brought out when the trial comes, and may God help them to escape the terrible fate which now hangs over them."

Groups of children, to whom Mary had given fruit and flowers, stood weeping as they saw their kind friend being carried off to prison.