noon
I have told my tale ; ’t is but the every-day story of the ups and downs of life -- the winnings and losings of the game we all sit down to play . One word more , and I have done . In the solitude of my chamber I took from its hiding-place a withered flower ; once it had been a beautiful white rose , how beautiful , how cherished , none knew so well as I. Long and steadfastly I gazed at it , conjuring up the while a vision of that wild night , with its flying clouds and its waving fir-trees , and the mocking moonlight shining coldly on the gravel path , and the bitterness of that hour , the bitterness of all that had yet fallen to my lot , and so I fell asleep . And behold it seemed to be noon , midsummer-noon in a garden of flowers , hot and bright and beautiful . The butterfly flitted in the sunshine , and the wood-pigeon mourned sweetly and sadly in the shade . Little children with laughing eyes played and rolled about upon the sward , and ran up , warm and eager , to offer me posies of the choicest flowers . One by one I refused them all , for amongst the pride of the garden there was none to me like my own withered rose that I had cherished so long , and I turned away from each as it was brought me , and pressed her closer to my heart where she always lay .