Publisher's Synopsis
"Hev a bunch o' roses, mem? Fresh wild roses with the dew on 'em. Jes' picked. On'y ten cents." They dropped in at the open window, and landed on Virginia Deering's lap. Her first impulse was to throw them out again, as she half said to herself, "I hate wild roses, I always shall!" But she glanced down into such a forlorn, wistful face, that her heart was touched, a not unkindly heart, though it had been bitter and obdurate with the unreason of youth. "Oh, please buy 'em, mem. Mammy's sick and can't do nothin', an' Ben's got a fever. On'y ten cents."
