Why, it was Susie who saved us from being ruthlessly destroyed! for it happened that one day old Peter was at work in the garden, and, to make the place 'a bit more tidy,' as he said, was proceeding to cut us off from the wall.
'They bain't o' much account,' he muttered, sharpening his hook; 'not loike them there Roses maister sets sich store by, and thinks so much on.'
Certainly it seemed very sad that, because we were merely 'common flowers,' our lives were to be cut short long before the appointed time; we had endeavoured to bloom as brightly as our more refined sisters, and in sunshine or shower had tried our best to look gay, and, I think, had succeeded, for we do not shut our petals as if we were sulking when dark clouds come, but keep them always open. But the fiat had gone forth—old Peter was the stern arbitrator of our destinies! and, feeling that our fate was inevitable, we sighed a last long farewell to each other, just as we saw him raise his sharp hook to cut us down. At that moment, so 'big with fate' for us, who should come into the garden, singing for very gladness like the birds themselves, but little Susie; the sunlight was playing with her waving hair, her eyes sparkled as the dewdrops in the sun, and her tiny feet skipped lightly along as she came dancing up the pathway.
That prolonged our lives! Old Peter dropped his hook to turn round and look at his young mistress.
'What are you going to do, Peter?' she inquired, as she drew near, and saw him take up his tools to resume work.
'Whoy, lop doun these 'ere things, Miss Zusie,' he replied, pointing at us contemptuously.
'Oh, please don't destroy them! they are so pretty!' was her eager exclamation.
'Purty, missie!' the old man repeated, with astonishment; 'whoy, them be wild loike.'
'But I love them dearly,' she persisted; 'so please leave them there.'
'But the maister?' pursued Peter, rubbing his rough head in his perplexity; 'he told me to clear roight up.'