“I must have been away a long time for my garden to have grown so big,” Philippe told himself.
Standing inside the gate was little Avril in a new green smock prettily embroidered with wreaths and garlands of flowers. She curtsied so low before him that the hem of her dress brushed the young shoots of grass; and she smiled at him tenderly.
“And who are you?” asked Philippe warily.
“Why, Philippe! Don’t you know me?”
“Yes, I think I do; but I thought that I knew Grandmother Marianne and she turned out to be Grandmother Rain. Uncle Pablôt, it seems, was not Uncle Pablôt at all, but Uncle Wind. And my Grandfather Joseph is Grandfather Snow and lies just above us on the hill. It is very puzzling; can I be sure that you have not changed your name?”
“I have quite a number of names,” explained the little girl. “Some call me Spring, some call me Flora, but you may call me Avril. Avril: April—it is all the same. Would you like me to show you your garden? It is very lovely, and I have worked hard to get it all in readiness for your coming.”
“You?”
“Yes. I am your gardener, but I have had a lot of help. Every one has been so kind! Uncle Wind helped me plant it, Grandfather Snow prepared the ground in fine shape, and Grandmother Rain has been here often and often, giving my little plant babies their bottles. It has been a lot of worry and care, Philippe,” Avril told him in a curiously grown-up voice, “but when you see my beautiful children, I am sure that you will think that it was worth while.
“Now here,” she said, smiling happily and taking him by the hand, “are some of my first babies: the snowdrops, named in honor of their godfather, Grandfather Snow. And here——”
