‘How beautifully everything grows here.’
‘Ay,’ said the old man, ‘it do. Say perfect and you won’t be far out.’
‘It’s very clever of you,’ said Charlotte. ‘Ill weeds don’t grow in a single place in your garden.’
‘I don’t say as I don’t do something,’ said the old man, ‘but seems as if there was a blessing on the place—everything thrives and grows just-so. It’s the soil or the aspick, p’raps. I dunno. An’ I’ve noticed things.’
‘What things?’ was the natural question.
‘Oh, just things,’ the gardener answered shortly, and swept away to the end of the long steps.
‘I say’—Caroline went after him to do it—‘I say, may we pick the flowers?’
‘In moderation,’ said the gardener, and went away.
‘How beautifully everything grows here.’