"And lords-and-ladies do that?"
"It isn't for me to say, miss. I only repeat what I have heard. There's other names for it. If you'll allow me, miss." John's nerves tingle as he takes the flower from the girl's hand, and in doing so, touches her fingers. The contact of her soft flesh with his is a concentrated bliss to him, and sets his sensitive soul on fire. "You see, I pull down this hood"--(he suits the action to the word, and turns down the outer leaf)--"and here's the Parson in his Pulpit. You might fancy 'twas something like it, miss."
"You must not make fun of parsons, John. My father was one."
John, who is a staunch church-goer, and by no means irreverently inclined, is instantly imbued with a deeper reverence than ever for parsons, and says apologetically,
"Tis not making fun of them, miss, to liken them to flowers. If I was to liken them to medicine bottles, now, with the white labels tied round their necks, 'twould be different; but I wouldn't go so far as that."
Nelly Marston laughs, the likeness of medicine bottles to the clergy is so clearly apparent.
"It is a long stretch either way, John. I must go in now. Don't forget to pick me a bunch of lords-and-ladies!"
"I'll not forget, miss."
The happy young gardener touches his cap, and walks away with a blithe heart, to search at once among the hedges for this particular species of the arum. Be sure that none but the very finest specimens will meet with his approval. From this day forth the cuckoo-pint holds a curiously-tender place in his memory, and the season
"When daisies pied, and violets blue,
And lady-smocks, all silver-white,