"Do you prefer this to the garden in front?" the English woman asked, in some surprise.
"Yes, I think I do."
"I must differ from you, then, because there we have the sea, you know; 'tis such a pretty view."
"I don't know as I care about the sea; it's all water—nothing to look at."
"Ah! I dare say it makes you ill. We had a very nasty day when we crossed from Folkestone."
"No; it ain't that exactly. I sit here because I like ter see the things grow," hazarded the American, timidly, as if she felt that some explanation was expected.
"The things?"
"Yes, in there." (She pointed to the paling fence.) "There's peas, and asparagus, and beans, and some sorts I don't know; you wouldn't believe how they do push up, day after day."
"Ah, indeed! I dare say they do," the Englishwoman answered, a little bewildered, looking at the lines of green behind the palings.
"Her name is Ash, Azubah Ash—fancy!" she said to her husband, later. "I saw it written on a Swiss basket in which she keeps her crewel-work. She is extremely odd. She has no maid, yet she wears those very good diamonds; and she always appears in that Paris gown of rich black silk—the very richest quality, I assure you, Augustas: she wears it and the diamonds at breakfast. She has spoken of a son, but apparently he never turns up. And she spends all her time on a bench behind the house watching the beans grow."