The gardener, who watched him at his toil; helped him with advice and occasional assistance, and gave him some hardy flowering plants from pots, to lend a temporary brightness to his plot.
Bertie was very proud of his handiwork by the week’s end; and his final triumph was the writing of the names in white stones along the edge of each little garden. David had been very zealous in collecting pebbles of suitable size and color, and Bertie set about this final work with great good will. When all was done he brought Mrs. Pritchard to see, and was much edified by her praise of his care and neatness.
“Why, it looks like old times, so it do, for sure,” she exclaimed, as she saw the neatly-weeded plots, each with its own well-trimmed plants still bearing the last of its blooms; but the good woman’s face looked a little grave as she saw the names traced there. “And for what did you do that, dearie?” she asked, a little uneasily.
Bertie looked up quickly.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
Mrs. Pritchard hesitated for a reply.
“Well, I don’t just know why you shouldn’t; only it struck me as perhaps the Squire would not be best pleased. You see, he never names them now, nor never has done. It seems to hurt him like.”
Bertie looked down at his letters and then up at Mrs. Pritchard.
“But he can’t have forgotten,” he said,—“I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten.”
“Bless your little heart! it isn’t that he forgets, but that he thinks too much.”