One bright morning, as she returned home, she found herself standing before the large house on the other side of the street. For the first time she found the large gate wide open. There was no one in sight, and taking two steps forward, Rose saw more of the pretty garden within than she had ever seen before. She had often been tempted to walk round the smooth broad walks of other gardens, but second thoughts had always prevented her. This time she did not wait for second thoughts, but deliberately determined to walk round the carriage way without leave asked or given.
The garden belonged to Mr Elphinstone, a great man—at least a great merchant in the eyes of the world. One of Rose’s amusements during the time she was confined in her sister’s sick-room was to watch the comings and goings of his only child, a girl only a little older than Rose herself. Sometimes she was in a little pony-carriage, which she drove herself; sometimes she was in a large carriage driven by a grave-looking coachman with a very glossy hat, and very white gloves. Rosie used to envy her a little when she saw her walking about in the garden gathering the flowers at her own will.
“How happy she must be!” she thought now, as she stood gazing about her. “If she is a nice young lady, as I am almost sure she is, she would rather that I enjoyed her flowers than not. At any rate I am going to walk round just once—and then go.”
But it was not an easy matter to get round the circle. It was not a very large one, but there were flowers all round it, and Rosie passed slowly on lost in wonder and delights as some strange blossom presented itself. It took a long time to pass quite round, and before this was accomplished, her footsteps were arrested by a splendid cardinal flower, that grow within the shadow of the wall. It was not quite a stranger. She had gathered a species of it often in the low banks of the pond; and as she bent over it with delight, a voice startled her—
“You should have soon it a while ago. It is past its best now.”
Rose turning saw the gardener, and hastily stammering an excuse, prepared to go. But he did not seem to understand that she was an intruder.
“If you’ll come, round this way I’ll show you flowers that are worth looking at,” said he.
“He thinks I am a visitor,” said Rose to herself. “I’m sure I admire his flowers as much as any of them can do. It won’t trouble him much to show them to me, and I’ll just go with him.”
So picking up her bonnet that had fallen on the walk, she followed him, a little frightened at her own boldness, but very much elated. She did not think the garden grew prettier as they went on, and her conductor hurried her past a great many pretty squares and circles without giving her time to admire them. He stopped at last before a long, narrow bed, where the flowers were growing without regard to regularity as to arrangement; but oh! Such colouring! Such depth and richness! What verbenas and heliotropes!—what purples—crimsons—scarlets! Rose could only gaze and wonder and exclaim, while her friend listened, and was evidently well pleased with her delight.
At last it was time to go, and Rose sighed as she said it. But she thanked him with sparkling eyes for his kindness, and added deprecatingly—