On the far side, the garden was bordered with taller shrubs—crépe-myrtles, mimosas, camelias, which merged imperceptibly into the trees of the grove. To the right, beyond the bordering path, a few pear-trees showed their naked branches and a tall frankincense tree threw delicate shadow-tracery over the corner bed. To the left were Japan plums and pomegranates and figs, half hiding the picket fence, and a few youthful orange-trees, descendants of sturdy ancestors who had lost their lives in the freeze three years before. A huge magnolia spread its shapely branches over one of the beds, its trunk encircled by a tempting seat. Ribbon-grass swayed gently here and there above the rioting shrubbery, and at the corner of the porch, where a gate gave on to the drive, a clump of banana-trees, which had almost but not quite borne fruit that year, reared their succulent green stems in a sunny nook and arched their great broad leaves, torn and ribboned by the winds, with tropical effect. Near at hand, against the warm red chimney, climbed a Baltimore Belle, festooning the end of the house for yards with its tiny, glossy leaves. The shadow of the house cut the garden sharply into two triangles, the dividing line between sunlight and shade crossing the pedestal of the smiling Cupid. Everywhere glistened diamonds of dew, and over all, growing more intense each instant as the sunlight and warmth grew in ardor, was the thrilling fragrance of the roses and the box, of damp earth and awakening leaves.
While Holly’s mother had lived the garden had been her pride and delight. It had been known to fame all through that part of the State and the beauty of the Wayne roses was a proverb. But now the care of it fell to Uncle Ran, together with the care of a bewildering number of other things, and Uncle Ran had neither the time nor the knowledge to maintain its former perfection. Holly loved it devotedly, knew it from corner to corner. At an earlier age she had plucked the blossoms for dolls and played with them for long hours on the seat under the magnolia. The full-blown roses were grown-up ladies, with beautiful outspread skirts of pink, white or yellow, and little green waists. The half-opened roses were young ladies, and tiny white violets, or waxen orange-blooms or little blossoms of the deutzia were the babies. For the men, although Holly seldom bothered much with men, there were the jonquils or the oleanders. She knew well where the first blue violets were to be found, where the white jonquils broke first from their green calyces, where the little yellow balls of the opopanax were sweetest, what rose-petals were best adapted to being formed into tiny sacs and exploded against the forehead, and many other wonderful secrets of that fair domain. But in spite of all this, Holly was no gardener.
She loved flowers just as she loved the deep blue Florida sky with its hazy edges, the soft wind from the Gulf, the golden sunlight, the birds and bees and butterflies—just as she loved everything that was quickened with the wonderful breath of Nature. There was something of the pagan in Holly when it came to devotion to Nature. And yet she had no ability to make things grow. From her mother she had inherited the love of trees and plants and flowers but not the gift of understanding them. Doubtless the Druids, with all their veneration for the oak and mistletoe, would have been sorely puzzled had they had to rear their leafy temples from planted acorns.
Holly went down the steps and, holding her gown away from the moisture-beaded branches, buried her face in a cluster of pink roses. Then, struck by a thought, she returned to the house, reappearing a moment later with her hands encased in a pair of old gloves, and carrying scissors.
Aunt India didn’t believe in bringing flowers into the house. “If the Lord had intended us to have them on the tables and mantels,” she said, “He’d have put them there. But He didn’t; He meant them to be out of doors and we ought to be satisfied to admire them where He’s put them.” Usually Holly respected her Aunt’s prejudice, but to-day seemed in a way a special occasion. The Cloth of Gold roses seemed crying to be gathered, and their stems snipped gratefully under the scissors as she made her way along the edge of the bed. Her hands were almost full of the big yellow blooms when footsteps sounded on the porch and she glanced up to see Winthrop descending the steps. She wondered with sudden dismay whether she was going to blush as she had yesterday, and, for fear that she was, leaned far over the refractory cluster she was cutting. Winthrop’s footsteps approached along the sandy walk, and—
