"How warm it is, Cousin Robert," she remarked one beautiful Sunday in May as they strolled along the smooth, winding paths. "It will soon be summer now."
"Aye," he answered, "that it will."
"See, the flower-beds have been freshly planted," the little girl continued. "There are some geraniums, and there are some heliotropes, and a lot of plants I don't know."
"Stocks," Mr. Harding informed her, pausing to look at the seedlings. "I'm very fond of stocks—I remember we always had them in our garden at home."
"At home?" Mousey questioned wonderingly.
"I mean my boyhood's home—where I lived when my parents were alive."
"It wasn't in Haughton, I suppose?"
"No. I was born and bred in a small village. I never had sister or brother, so when my parents died I came to Haughton to try to make a fortune—and succeeded."
The old man's eyes glistened proudly for a moment then softened as he continued—
"My mother used to be fond of stocks. She was a good woman, was my mother."