And when Myrtle returned with the old fisherman, who had before dawn taken him off to fish in his boat, she ran down to meet him, and to display all these treasures. And long the two sat together upon the rocks, gazing with wonder at the tiny atoms from which such beautiful things were to grow.
The garden was once more dug over, and its surface smoothed. And by the next fine day their seeds were snug in the ground, waiting patiently, as seeds do always, for their time to come up.
Now that the snow was gone and the weather mild, the children of the shore could pat along on the sands again; and, hearing of the wonderful garden, they came often to the hut, to watch the planting of the seeds, and to see what might happen next.
There was great joy, therefore, along the shore, when the first pale, tender sprouts appeared above the ground, and all came running to see. For never before had there been a flower-bed upon the beach. And as for Rosebud and Myrtle, they could hardly bear to be a single hour away, lest some little green stranger should come to town in their absence.
Those were the days when the pewter platters got but few scrubbings, and when the broom came to but little wear; when the pretty shells were neglected, and the drift-wood was tumbled hastily into the baskets.
O, when would the flowers come? What color? How large? Fragrant? Would they last?
“’Twill be a pity to pluck them,” said Rosebud, “after they have taken so much pains to grow.”
“But then they would die on the stalk, you know,” said Myrtle.
And it was therefore agreed that the flowers should be cut off, no matter how lovely.
And many sick people might have been cheered by them, and many a dark room brightened, had not something happened to prevent it all. It was a strange adventure, this that happened to our Rosebud, and should have a chapter by itself.