nia Cortright says that they are very plentiful in the dry
ground back of the marshes, where the sand has been carried in drifts
both by wind and tide.

The table and house decorations the day that we arrived were of thistles
blended with the deep yellow blossoms of the downy false foxglove or
Gerardia and the yellow false indigo that looks at a short distance like
a dwarf bush pea.

We drove to Coningsby, as I supposed to see some gay little gardens,
fantastic to the verge of awfulness, that had caught Aunt Lavinia's eye.
In one the earth for the chief bed was contained in a surf-boat that had
become unseaworthy from age, and not only was it filled to the brim, but
vines of every description trailed over the sides.

A neighbour opposite, probably a garden rival of the owner of the boat
but lacking aquatic furniture, had utilized a single-seated cutter
which, painted blue of the unmerciful shade that fights with everything
it approaches, was set on an especially green bit of side lawn,
surrounded by a heavy row of conch shells, and the box into which the
seat had been turned, as well as the bottom of the sleigh itself, was
filled with a jumble of magenta petunias and flame-coloured nasturtiums.

After we had passed down a village street a quarter of a mile long,
bordered on either side by floral combinations of this description, the
sight began to pall, and I wondered how it was possible that any flowers
well watered and cared for could produce such a feeling of positive
aversion as well as eye-strained fatigue; also, if this was all that the
Cortrights had driven us many miles to see, when it was so much more
interesting to lounge on either of the porches of their own cottage, the
one commanding the sea and the other the sand garden, the low dunes, and
the marsh meadows.

"It is only half a mile farther on," said Aunt Lavinia, quick to feel
that we were becoming bored, without our having apparently given any
sign to that effect.

"It! What is _it_?" asked Bart, while I, without shame it is confessed,
having a ravenous appetite, through outdoor living, hoped that _it_ was
some quaint and neat little inn that "refreshed travellers," as it was
expressed in old-time wording.

"How singular!" ejaculated Aunt Lavinia; "I thought I told you last
night when we were in the garden--well, it must have been in a dream
instead. _It_ is the garden of Mrs. Marchant, wholly of fragrant things;
it is on the little cross-road, b