‘I went out of the drawing-room window before sunrise to-day, to gather flowers to make into wreaths. The gardener had not opened the greenhouse; but I found much more than I should have expected in the beginning of December,--even rosebuds. The ferns look lovely still. A few days ago I made a wreath of myrtle. I thought it like an emblem of my own sweet sister; sweetest when bruised; with an unfading leaf; and a white, simple-looking, yet lovely blossom.