"This rose, said Dr. Heidegger, with a sigh, "this same withered
and crumbling flower, blossomed five and fifty years ago. It was given
me by Sylvia Ward, whose portrait hangs yonder; and I meant to wear it
in my bosom at our wedding. Five and fifty years it has been treasured
between the leaves of this old volume. Now, would you deem it possible
that this rose of half a century could ever bloom again?"
"Nonsense!" said the Widow Wycherly, with a peevish toss of her
head. "You might as well ask whether an old woman's wrinkled face
could ever bloom again."
"See!" answered Dr. Heidegger.
He uncovered the vase, and threw the faded rose into the water
which it contained. At first, it lay lightly on the surface of the
fluid, appearing to imbibe none of its moisture. Soon, however, a
singular change began to be visible. The crushed and dried petals
stirred, and assumed a deepening tinge of crimson, as if the flower
were reviving from a deathlike slumber; the slender stalk and twigs of
foliage became green; and there was the rose of half a century,
looking as fresh as when Sylvia Ward had first given it to her
lover.
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