The patch of ground in front of the side of the house that faced the west was particularly productive, being sheltered from the east wind; and as old John Bawdon, the gardener, carefully turned over the brown earth with his spade on this promising spring morning, he made a mental picture of the garden as he hoped to see it in the summer.
"'Tis beautiful soil," he muttered; "just the right sort for them young carnation plants. They'll make a fine show by-and-by!"
"John!" cried a young, imperious voice. "John! what are you talking about, all to yourself?"
The gardener turned his brown, weather-beaten countenance towards the speaker, a boy of about seven years old, whose handsome face was ruddy and glowing with perfect health.
"I was saying how fine the carnations will look in the summer, please God."
"Why do you say 'please God'?" asked the child, laughing. "You know, John, you always do say it, and it does sound so funny."
"Well, Master Theodore," was the reply, in rather injured tones, "I suppose it is as God pleases, anyway. I may dig, and plant, and prune, and tend the garden with all my strength, but it's all no good if God doesn't help. That's my experience, sir, and I've lived nigh upon seventy years, and more than fifty of those years I've been working in these here gardens. You don't find many of my sort now-a-days," he added with conscious pride. "More than half a century I've served your family, Master Theodore, as I've told you many times. I mind when your grandfather, who's dead and gone, was a lad; we were boys together. I mind when your father was born, and I mind the night you came into the world. Yes, I recollect some changes."
The old man struck his spade into the ground, and leaning on the handle of it, looked very tenderly at the boy. The child was clad in a loose, sailor's suit, and he stood in a negligent, care-for-nothing attitude, his hands in his trousers pockets.
"I know you're awfully old, John,—" he was beginning, when the old man interrupted him.
"Not so old but that there's a deal of work left in me yet. I'm strong and hearty still. But living in one family so many years, naturally one sees changes—great changes. You know, Master Theodore, how this bit of ground was your mother's favourite spot; she used to call it her winter garden, because there were mostly flowers here in dead winter. See that yellow jessamine against the wall, and that clump o' anemones! They were here in your mother's time. And the blue violets! How your mother did love violets, to be sure! I made a beautiful wreath of them to put on her coffin, and it was buried with her. It seemed fitting like that she should be covered in flowers, she who was so bright and beautiful, when they threw the cruel earth in upon her."