"Those flowers grow in an atmosphere of love," Mrs. Pennybacker had said the day before in passing by, "and if I am not mistaken their roots are planted in the soil of patient care and intelligent plant knowledge."
By the side of this porch garden stood a little lady in a red shawl which glowed among her greens and matched her geraniums, and at her side, his hands full of flowers, was Philip.
"Why, dearest!" cried Margaret across the lawn. Then in apology to the lady, "I hope my little one has not troubled you."
"Not in the least. She stood and looked so longingly at the flowers that I called her in. Even then she only said, 'Do you think you could spare me just one?'"
Margaret laughed. "That was modest, certainly, but a little suggestive. The child is really unusually fond of flowers."
"I thought so. I can always tell when the true love is there. I often hear grown people say, 'I am fond of flowers, but I don't know much about them.' I say to myself, 'You haven't the true love or you would know.'" Then looking down at the child, "I am always glad to share with those who have it, especially little girls that ask so nicely for them. It is when they come and pick them without asking that I don't like it. You wouldn't do that, would you, little girl?"
Philip shook his head and looked pleadingly at his mother. The look being interpreted said, "This seems to be a very pleasant lady. Couldn't I just tell her?"
Her eyes denied him.
"You have a beautiful location here. And I think it must be your own home."
"It is. I come early and stay late."