“And the lesser stitchwort?”
“Yes?” he said, inquiringly. “Is it like this?”
“Nearly the same, only the flowers are half the size.”
“And it grows where?”
“In similar places—by hedges and ditches.”
“But you said something about time.”
“Yes,” replied the Reverend Arthur, who was thinking how wondrous pleasant it would be to go on teaching botany to such a pupil for evermore. “Yes, it is a couple of months, say, later than the great stitchwort.”
“Ah!” said Helen, with a sigh. “By that time I shall be far away.”
The stitchwort fell to the ground, and they walked on together, with Helen, Circe-like, transforming the meek, studious, elderly man by her side, so that he was ready to obey her slightest whim, eagerly trying the while to explain each object upon which her eye seemed to rest; while she, glorying in her new power, led him on and on, with soft word, and glance, and sigh.
They had been at least an hour in the garden when they reached the vinery, through whose open door came the sweet, inviting scent of the luxuriant tender growth.