Steadily it grew, and finally the bud appeared, and one fair day it burst into blossom and filled the whole garden with its perfume.

The thought of parting with this treasure tugged at the man’s very heartstrings.  “The King has many, how many, who can tell!  Must I give up mine to Him?  Not yet.  Not quite yet!”

So he put off carrying away the perfect flower from one day to the next, till at last it fell and was no more worthy.

Ah, then what sadness possessed the man’s soul!  He vowed that he would never rest until he had brought another plant to perfection and given it to the King; for he realized, at last, that only by giving it, could its loveliness become perennial.  Yet he mourned his perfect flower, for it seemed to him no other would ever possess such beauty.

So he set forth again to the Public Garden, but there a great shock awaited him.  He found that no second bulb could be vouchsafed to any one.  Very sadly he retraced his steps and carefully covered the precious bulb, hoping that when the season of storm and frost was past, there might come to it renewed life.

As soon as the spring began to spread green loveliness again across the landscape, the man turned, with a full heart, to the care and nurture of his hope.  The winter of waiting had taught him many a lesson.

He tended the plant now with his own hands, in the light of day and in the sight of all men.  Long he cherished it, and steadily it grew, and the man’s thought grew with it.  Finally the bud appeared, increasing and beautifying daily, until, one morning, a divine fragrance spread beyond the farthest limits of that garden, for the flower had bloomed, spotless, fit for a holy gift; and the man looked upon it humbly and not as his own; but rejoiced in the day of its perfection that he might leave all else behind him, and, carrying it to the King, lay it at His feet and receive His bidding; and so go forth upon his joyous quest.

* * * * *

Hazel closed the book.  Flossie was watching her attentively.  Miss Fletcher had laid down her sewing and was wiping her spectacles.

“Did you like it?” asked Hazel.

“Yes,” replied Flossie.  “I wish I knew what that flower was.”

“Mother says the blossom is consecration,” replied Hazel.  “I forget what she said the bulb was.  What do you think it was, aunt Hazel?”

“Humility, perhaps,” replied Miss Fletcher.

“Yes, that’s just what she said!  I remember now.  Oh, let’s go and look at yours and see how the bud is to-day.”  Hazel sprang up from the grass and carefully pushed Flossie’s chair to the flower-bed.

“Oh, aunt Hazel, it’s nearly out,” she cried, and Miss Fletcher, who had remained behind still polishing her spectacles with hands that were not very steady, felt a little frightened leap of the heart.  She wished the Quest Flower would be slower.