ithin the shadow of the wall. It was not quite a stranger.
She had gathered a species of it often in the low banks of the pond; and
as she bent over it with delight, a voice startled her--

"You should have soon it a while ago. It is past its best now."

Rose turning saw the gardener, and hastily stammering an excuse,
prepared to go. But he did not seem to understand that she was an
intruder.

"If you'll come, round this way I'll show you flowers that are worth
looking at," said he.

"He thinks I am a visitor," said Rose to herself. "I'm sure I admire
his flowers as much as any of them can do. It won't trouble him much to
show them to me, and I'll just go with him."

So picking up her bonnet that had fallen on the walk, she followed him,
a little frightened at her own boldness, but very much elated. She did
not think the garden grew prettier as they went on, and her conductor
hurried her past a great many pretty squares and circles without giving
her time to admire them. He stopped at last before a long, narrow bed,
where the flowers were growing without regard to regularity as to
arrangement; but oh! Such colouring! Such depth and richness! What
verbenas and heliotropes!--what purples--crimsons--scarlets! Rose could
only gaze and wonder and exclaim, while her friend listened, and was
evidently well pleased with her delight.

At last it was time to go, and Rose sighed as she said it. But she
thanked him with sparkling eyes for his kindness, and added
deprecatingly--

"I am not a visitor here. I saw the gate open and came in. I couldn't
help it."

It was a small matter to her new friend whether she were a visitor at
the great house or not.

"You ken a flower when you see it," said he, "and that's more than can
be said of some of the visitors here."

He led the way round the garden till they came to a summer-house covered
with a flowering vine, which was like nothing ever Rose had seen before.

"It was just like what a bower ought to be," she told Graeme,
afterwards. "It was just like a lady's bower in a book."

There was a little mound before it, upon which and in the borders close
by grew a great many flowers. Not rare flowers, such as she had just
been admiring, but flowers sweet and common, pansies and thyme, sweet
peas and mignonette. It was Miss Elphinstone's own bower, the gardener
said, and these were her favourite flowers. Rose bent over a pale
little blossom near the path--

"W