As she walked, weeping, beside the once brilliant border, she saw the rose-mallow lying half-dead across her path.
"I feel so happy, and yet so miserable, to-day," said the rose-mallow to the Princess one morning.
She thought of the rose-mallow, and pondered with new-born sympathy on the Violet's pain.
They were screened by a tangle of rose-mallow, and there John Woolfolk seated himself—waiting.
The rose-mallow alone was too busily employed in climbing the wall to observe what circumstance was disturbing the flower-garden.
Often the sad music seemed to be the voice of her lover; then the tones softened to a sigh; it was the rose-mallow's dying sob.