"On Saturday," said John, "the Curate is coming to tea. He is a man of wisdom and a botanist to boot—or do I mean withal? On Saturday the Hairy Bittercress shall be publicly proclaimed by its rightful name."
"Which is Hazel Catkin," said Margery.
Saturday came and Saturday afternoon, and, about three o'clock, the Curate. I saw him coming and met him at the door.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," I said. "You come to a house of bitterness and strife. Walk right in."
"Indeed I trust not," he said.
"Come with me," I replied; "I will tell you all about it." And I led him on tip-toe to a quiet spot.
"Mr. Holmes," I said, "you know the family well. We have always been a happy loving crowd, have we not?"
"Indeed you have," he said politely.
"Well," I continued, "a weed has split us asunder. My brother-in-law and my younger sister are on the point of committing mutual murder."
I explained the whole situation and drew a harrowing picture of its effect on our family life. "Unless you help us," I said, "this Hazel Catkin or Hairy Bittercress will ruin at least four promising young lives."