She had asked him to get a bouquet of flowers, to throw on the stage to her in the last piece, in which both she and the Leading Lady appeared. Flowers have before now been used for purposes as sharp.
But where to get the flowers? A bouquet of flowers was unheard of in Silver Creek township. Where to get them? Where?
Could not love grow them?
Where to get them? Ah, he knew! Six miles away on the main road to the metropolis, there was a--yes, call it so--a garden; a little plot of ground tended by a woman with country memories. In less than two minutes he was in the saddle, galloping in that direction, and right in front of him, all the way, shone Margaret's face and Margaret's eyes and hair. No will-o'-the-wisp was ever more alluring. Margaret lurked in the bushes, glided among the trees, shone in the open spaces, and Philip's heart beat fast and joyously. The six miles of bush road, so soft and pleasant to the horse's feet, were soon traversed, and there was the garden with a few--not many--flowers in it. Philip Rowe leaped off his horse, with joyous exclamations. A woman came to the door.
"Here, Jim!" she cried, to her husband, running into the house, thinking that a bushranger (Anglicè, highwayman) was paying them a visit.
Jim promptly appeared, with a gun in his hand. "Now then?" he demanded, nothing daunted.
"Oh! it's all right, mate," said Philip; and in a few moments he explained the motive of his visit.
"About a dozen flowers done up in a bunch are all I want. This for them."
He held up two pieces of rich quartz, in which there were probably two ounces of gold.
Jim was agreeable, coveting the specimen; his wife was not, loving her flowers. But when Philip pleaded, and told his story, she relented.