oot to the weeds piled up on the gravel path,
and there was a pause of two whole minutes before a weak little voice
inquired faintly:

"Who took such care? Who put them in? I don't understand."

"The young master up at The Larches and one of his gardeners. They was
here for a good two hours. We wondered to see you scratching them up.
Joe says to me, he says, `Go down and tell her,' he says. `Oh,' I says,
`she knows what she's about!' I says. `She's not the sort to do a
trick like that,' I says."

Peggy's lips positively ached with the effort of twisting them into a
smile.

"That was very kind of you," she said. "It would be a silly trick,
would it not? Do you think you could boil the kettle for me now? I
feel badly in need of some tea."

CHAPTER TWELVE.

Rob received Peggy's confession of her latest gardening exploit with a
roar of good-natured laughter. She had been afraid lest he might be
angry, or--what would have been even worse--superior and forbearing; but
he was neither the one nor the other. Such a genuine, Peggy-Pickle
trick, he declared, was worth taking some trouble to enjoy, and went far
towards consoling him for the advent of a fashionable young lady in the
place of his mischievous little friend. His generosity was not
sufficient, however, to prevent him from enlarging on the exceeding
beauty of the seedlings which had been so ruthlessly disturbed, and
Peggy listened in an agony to a string of names wherein syllables ran
riot. _Salpiglossis_! Alas, alas! she had not the faintest idea what
the flower was like, but the name was exquisite, all-satisfying. It
rolled off her tongue with sonorous effect. To speak of it alone would
have been joy. She looked so meek and wretched that Rob nerved himself
to fresh efforts, and wrought miracles on her behalf, so that if by any
chance she admired a plant in The Larches' garden, that plant was
transplanted bodily to Yew Hedge, and smiled a welcome to her on her
next approach.

The gardener pointed out the folly of moving plants in bloom, and
prophesied failure; but no failure came, for plants have their likes and
dislikes, like other living creatures, and there is no doubt that they
are more amiably disposed to some people than to others. If another man
had been rash enough to disturb their flowering, they would have sulked
for the rest of the season, and made him suffer for his boldness; but no
plant ever sulked at Robert Darcy. He had s