Instantly calling a servant he dispatched him to discover what might be the explanation of this delightful mystery.

The servant sped and found a youth bearing a jar containing a plant crowned with a wondrous pure white flower which sent forth this sweetness.

The servant endeavored to bring the bearer to his master, but the youth steadily refused; saying that, the plant being now in perfection, he was carrying it to the King, for in his possession it would never fade.

The servant returning with this news, the owner of the garden hastened, himself, and overtook the young man.  When his eyes beheld the wondrous plant, he demanded it at any price.

“I cannot part with it to you,” returned the youth, “but do you not know that at the Public Garden a bulb of this flower is free to all?”

“I never heard of it,” replied the man, with excitement, “but to grow it must be difficult.  Promise me to return and tend it for me until I possess a plant as beautiful as yours.”

“That would be useless,” returned the youth, “for every man must tend his own; and as for me, the King will send me on a quest when He has received this flower, and I shall not return this way.”

His face was radiant as he proceeded on his road, and the rich man, filled with an exceeding longing, hastened to the Public Garden and made known his desire.  He was given a bulb, and was told that the King provided it, but that when the plant was in flower it must be carried to Him.

The man agreed, and returning to his house, rejoicing, caused the bulb to be planted in a beautiful spot set apart for its reception.

But, strangely, as time went on, his gardeners could not make this plant grow.  The man sent out for experts, men with the greatest wisdom concerning the ways of flowers, but still the bulb rested passive.  The man offered rewards, but in vain.  His garden was still famous and praised for its beauty far and near; but it pleased him no longer.  His heart ached with longing for the one perfect flower.

One night he lay awake, mourning and restless, until he could bear it no more.  He rose, the only waking figure in the sleeping castle, and went out upon a balcony.  A flood of moonlight was turning his garden to silver, and suddenly a nightingale’s sobbing song pulsed upon the air and filled his heart to bursting.

Wrapping his mantle about him, he descended a winding stair and walked to where, in the centre of the garden, reposed his buried hope.  No one was by to witness the breaking down of his pride.  He knelt, and swift tears fell upon the earth and moistened it.

What wonder was this?  He brushed away the blinding drops, the better to see, for a little green shoot appeared from the brown earth, and, with a leap of the heart, he perceived that his flower had begun to grow.

Every succeeding night, while all in the castle were sleeping, he descended to the garden and tended the plant.