“You just ought to see the flowers in the South, Cicely,” said Beverly. “The flower markets are the prettiest places! And our flowers are big, bright luscious ones; not like these pale little Yankee things. We have something blooming all the year round.”
“And further south are waxy magnolias, and Cherokee roses and azaleas and trumpet-vines—oh, they are lovely!” said Nancy.
“But I think these twin-flowers are wonderful,” said Cicely, holding up a spray of the creeper with a pair of tiny pink bells on the end. “We don’t have this in England. I followed a delicious odor like heliotrope in the woods, and came upon a whole pink rug of this fairy-flower!”
“You are a real flower detective,” said Nancy. “A botanical Sherlock Holmes.”
“I love flowers!” cried Gilda clasping her hands. “Everybody of Belge loved ze flowers. In my city we had one great garden in ze middle of ze railroad station, under ze glass roof. And along ze canals of Bruges it was like one long garden, sliding down into ze wasser. But war spoiled all ze gardens, and ze people who made zem.” Her face grew sad.
It was then that they spied the figure of the old Indian woman approaching, with a great bag slung over her shoulder and a basket under one arm.
“How?” she grunted, coming up to the piazza and setting down her burden. “You buy basket of old Sal? You promised.” Gilda was nearest her.
“I haven’t money,” said Gilda. “I’m very poor.”
“I haven’t much, either,” laughed Nancy. “But I’ll see. And I’ll call the other girls.” She disappeared to the Fairy Ring.
“Let me see the baskets,” said Beverly. “I like baskets. I am trying to make one for my mother, but it is very hard.”