She gave Jean a blue bowl to pick strawberries in; and Derry dug asparagus—the creamy shoots were tipped with pale purple and pink, deepening into green where they had stood too long in the sun.
"Aren't there any flowers?" Jean was anxious.
"Come and see." The old woman went ahead of them, her cane tap-tapping on the stone flags.
She opened a gate which was flanked by brick walls. "These," she said, whimsically, "are my jewels."
[Illustration: "These are my jewels.">[
All the sweetness which had once spread over her domain was concentrated here, fragrance and flame—roses, iris, peonies—honeysuckle—ruby and emerald, amethyst and gold; a Cupid riding a swan, with water pouring from his quiver into a shallow marble basin.
"I should not have dared keep this, if it had not been for the other—" the old woman told them. "I am very sure that in these days God walks in vegetable gardens—"
For breakfast they had strawberries and radishes, thin little corn cakes—and two fresh eggs from the chickens which most triumphantly occupied the conservatory.