"Not now, sir, not now," said Mr. Dickinson; and then, before William could speak, added, "Pray, sir, do you not see the ladies, that you take no notice of them?"
William came in, and having spoken to me and to Harriet, who was a great favorite with him, he waited patiently till there was a pause in the conversation, when he edged up to his uncle, and taking his hand said, "Come, now uncle,—do come—it will not take you two minutes, and I must know the name of that flower,—it is the handsomest thing I ever saw in my life."
"You are very persevering, sir," said Mr. Dickinson, but at the same time rose and suffered the little boy to lead him off.
Mrs. Temple asked if I would not follow them and see this wonderful flower; to which I readily agreed, as I thought while in the garden I might find a very good opportunity to speak to Mr. Dickinson about his gardener. We soon came up with William and his uncle. They were standing by a large tub, in which was the flower William had so much admired. It was indeed a splendid plant. When near enough, I heard Mr. Dickinson pronouncing its name very slowly, while William carefully repeated it after him. It was so long that I fear poor William with all his trouble did not remember it long; yet, as you may like to know it I will tell it to you. It was a Cactus Grandiflora. The flower was not yet fully open, and on my saying I had never seen one before, Mr. Dickinson begged that I would drive over the next day and look at it in greater perfection, which I promised to do, if the weather remained pleasant. As we returned to the house William drew Harriet off into another walk. Mr. Dickinson looked after them for a moment, and then said, turning to me, "William is the only child I ever saw who at six years old might be trusted in a garden without fear. He will not pluck a leaf without permission."
"Well taught children never do," said I.
"Then, ma'am," he replied, "there are very few well taught children. I have just had to part with a most admirable gardener, because his children were in this respect so ill taught, that they did my flowers more harm than he, with all his skill, could do them good."
"Have you supplied his place yet?" I inquired.
"No, ma'am, I have not. I am determined to engage no one who has children, and I have not yet heard of one who has none."
"Would it not be as well if you could find one whose children were in this respect as well taught as William Temple?"
"That, ma'am, I think would be even more difficult."