It was a currant bush that she had espied, half-buried under the rank growth of grass, the clusters of fruit showing redly amongst the coarse green blades that went near to hiding it altogether.
The children’s glee knew no bounds.
“I b’lieve,” cried Marygold, her voice piercingly shrill with excitement, “that we’ve found ’Laddin’s garden with the trees bearing the wonderful fruit that was jewels, you know.”
For now, in addition to currant-bushes, red, white, and black, Hubert had lighted on some raspberry canes with ripening fruit too.
“Don’t you know,” went on Marygold, “that in the fairy-book it says, that the white, red, and yellow fruit were really pearls and rubies and topaz and—”
“I expect,” broke in Hubert, whose utterance was somewhat impeded by the handfuls of fruit, which he had been diligently cramming into his mouth, “I expect that it’s really a sort of buried-alive garden, for it is quite real fruit, Marygold, and raver sour.”
“I’ll tell you,” was the reply, “it must belong to the fairies, and Mrs. Busson can’t know anything about it.”
“ ’Spose we keep it all a secret,” said Hubert.
“Oh! but you always say that,” said Marygold, reproachfully, “and then you never do. No, let’s say that we’ve found a garden but we can’t say where.”
“Yes,” cried Hubert, “and let’s get a cabbage leaf and put some of the fruit in it, just to show them that it’s all true.”