Cambridge was soon reached, and after a walk through the College Yard that Giusippe might have a peep at Holworthy, where Uncle Bob had spent his student days, the sightseers entered a quiet old brick building and were led by Mr. Cabot into a room where stood case after case of blooming flowers. There were garden blossoms of every variety, wild flowers, tropical plants, all fresh and green as if growing. And yet they were not growing; instead they lay singly or in clusters, each bloom as perfect as if just cut from the stalk.
"How beautiful! Oh, Uncle Bob, it is like a big greenhouse!" exclaimed Jean.
"This is what I brought you to see."
"But you said we were coming to see something made of glass," objected Giusippe.
"You did say so, Uncle Bob."
"Behold, even as I said!"
"Bu-u-t, these flowers are not glass. What do you mean?"
"On the contrary, my unbelieving friends, glass is precisely what they are made of. Every blossom, every leaf, every bud, every seed here is the work of an expert glass-maker."
Mr. Cabot watched their faces, enjoying their incredulity.
"Glass!"