Unlike most Irishmen, he had a great love for flowers. His garden was beautifully kept, and he was prouder of his roses than of anything on earth save his eldest daughter, Kitty, who was nearly sixteen. Picture, then, his rage and dismay when he one day found his beds scratched into holes and his roses uprooted by “King William,” who had developed a mania for hiding away bones under Jim’s flowers. O’Brien made loud and angry complaints to the dog’s owner, which she received with unconcern and disbelief.
“Please, Mr. O’Brien,” she said, with dignity, “don’t try to put it on the puir wee dog. Even if yu du dislike his name, that’s no reason for saying he was in your garden. He knows betther, so he does, than to go where he’s not wanted.”
After this it was open war between the stationmaster and the widow.
Under the windows of the refreshment room were two narrow flower-beds. These Jim took care never to touch, affecting to consider them the exclusive property of Mrs. Macfarlane. They were long left uncultivated, an eyesore to the stationmaster; but one day Kelly, the porter, came to him with an air of mystery, to say that “th ould wan”—for by this term was Mrs. Macfarlane generally indicated—“was settin’ somethin’ in the beds beyant.”
Jim came out of his office and walked up and down the platform with an air of elaborate unconsciousness. Sure enough, there was Mrs. Macfarlane gardening. She had donned old gloves and a clean checked apron, and, trowel in hand, was breaking up the caked earth, preparatory, it would seem, to setting plants.
“What the dickens is she doin’?” asked Jim, when he got back.
“Not a wan ov me knows,” said Kelly. “She’s been grubbin’ there since nine o’clock.”
From this time Mrs. Macfarlane was assiduous in the care of her two flower-beds. Every day she might be seen weeding or watering, and though Jim steadily averted his gaze, he was devoured by curiosity as to the probable results. What on earth did she want to grow? The weeks passed. Tiny green seedlings at last pushed their way through the soil, and in due course the nature of the plants became evident. Jim was highly excited, and rushed home to tell his wife.
“Be the hokey, Mary,” he said, “’tis lilies she has there, an may I never sin, but it’s my belief they’re orange lilies, an’ if they are, I’ll root ev’ry wan ov thim out, if I die for it.”
“Be quiet, now,” said Mary. “How d’ye know they’re lilies at all? For the love o’ God keep her tongue off ov ye, an’ don’t be puttin’ yersel’ in her way.”