be learnt there, I put my bundle on my 

 shoulder, und I went to France, und I 

 worked one year, two years, und I 

 learned roses. Und then I went to the 

 rhododendron growers und I worked 

 there. I learned what they had to 

 teach. Und then I went to England — I 

 worked there in the nurseries one year, 

 two years. I went to one nursery; I 

 found they knew nothing; I left. I 

 went to another. I learnt what wass to 

 be learned there. Und then I went to 

 Boskoop, for I had grown much inter- 

 ested in azaleas und rhododendrons, und 

 I worked there. Und at night always I 

 read, und when I found the man lied I 

 burnt him." 



"What?" 



"I burnt his book in my fire. If he did 

 not gif the information that one does 

 not know, that wass nothing. But if 

 he stated as a fact something he had 

 not proved, he wass not to be trusted. 

 There wass one man: he had been my 

 authority for ten years. But he said 

 something. My experiment made me 

 think it wass not so. I tried again and 

 yet again. The same result. He had 

 lied, he had said a thing wass true that he 

 did not know to be true. I burnt him. 

 He should give no false information to 

 any one else after I wass dead." The old 

 man ended calmly. 



The girl's eyes laughed, but her mouth 

 was grave. 



"Have you many books left, Uncle 

 Rudolph?" 



"A few. With plants one gets the 

 knowledge here," he tapped his cap 

 with his stick, "und here" — he held 

 out a broad short-fingered capable 

 hand. 



"That's where I want it. Would 

 they give me a job at the Gardens, 

 Uncle Rudolph — like you had at Bos- 

 koop?" 



"There is no woman there but one, 

 und she iss in the office und writes und 

 that sort of thing." 



"Accounts?" asked Roberta anx- 

 iously. 



"No, no, she hass not intelligence. 

 Henry Sterling does the accounts. I 

 think she leafes soon also. She iss to be 

 married soon. That takes no intelli- 

 gence." 



"Um-m," said Roberta thoughtfully, 

 as she watched old Rudolph go down 

 the street, a thick broad figure stump- 

 ing heavily with his cane, and then 

 turned again to the phlox she was 

 dividing. 



"I wonder what she does? Dictation 

 I suppose, that sort of thing. Is there 

 at probably 8.30. If one gets there at 

 seven," she laughed to herself, "there'd 

 be apples of wisdom to pick up like the 

 apples for the wise early little pig in 

 the nursery story. Anyway one could 

 try. 



Chapter IV 



So it happened that September found 

 Roberta Davenant at work at the famous 

 old Roseberry Gardens. 



"But, my dear," protested Miss 

 Adelaide, "none of the Davenant ladies 

 have earned their living!" 



"More shame to them!" said Roberta 

 cheerfully. "If I were a boy I'd have 

 been at work two years ago instead of 

 living off you. I can't help not being a 

 boy, Aunt Adelaide, but I can help 

 loafing. Besides, haven't you wanted 

 me to settle down? And if getting 

 rooted in a garden isn't settling down, 

 what is? It will make me very happy and 

 I'll bring you home such pretty things!" 

 she ended coaxingly. 



Roberta fitted at Roseberry Gardens 

 as she had never fitted into the Davenant 

 house. She liked it. She liked the head 

 of the firm, Mr. Horace Worthington, 

 a little old gentleman with charm and 

 rare courtesy of manner, a scholar and a 

 botanist. He was slight and silvery 

 haired and wore large gold-bowed spec- 

 tacles. In fact, it seemed as if everyone 

 at Roseberry Gardens had silvery hair 

 or gray. The only young life really 

 evident was Roberta herself and the 

 freckled office-boy, Barney. There was, 

 it is true, a sprinkling of sons and 

 nephews among them, and there was 

 Conklin the packer, thin, nervous, 

 rapid, and black-haired; but the im- 

 pression of the workmen's heads one 

 saw bending here and there among the 

 nursery rows was of gray and silver, like 

 the big Alcock's spruce at the drive end. 



The young secretary liked it all. She 

 liked the excitement of packing and 

 shipping: the scent of fresh earth from 

 the heaps of little plants awaiting their 

 journey, the fragrance of young ever- 

 greens that made the long packing shed 

 "smell like Christmas," as she said. 



She liked the romance of it: the 

 Christmas trees that were started south 

 in late September to bring a northern 

 Yule tide to little South Americans; 

 the trees that went West like valiant 

 pioneers to the treeless regions to combat 

 drought and winds and make a foothold 

 for others; the stout young junipers that 

 were sent to the sea coast to protect wind 

 swept gardens from the northeasters. 



She loved the heaps and heaps of rose 

 bushes, only brown stems and roots in 

 the autumn that were to wake up in the 

 spring in a new home to make some bit 

 of a wilderness blossom. She used to 

 wonder how they'd like it in their new 

 homes. There was no cause for worry 

 about the delicate stately camellias that 

 went away most carefully packed and 

 attended. Those were sure, like fine 

 ladies, to get most careful treatment 

 simply because they demanded it! 



And she liked the people who came 



122 



and went. Those that bought but a 

 few plants and chose them most care- 

 fully, taking home as a prize to the little 

 garden some lovely new thing; little 

 old ladies whose one outing in the year 

 was a visit to the famous gardens and 

 the purchase of a long desired plant, 

 Daphne or Andromeda, and took it back 

 with pure delight. Most of the owners 

 of the large places, if they visited the 

 gardens, were real plant lovers and en- 

 joyed to the utmost the beauty of a new 

 sort. If they weren't plant lovers they 

 didn't come, but sent their gardeners, 

 usually a Scotchman or German or 

 Englishman who knew and loved the 

 plants. The dealers Roberta hated — 

 the hard commercial type to whom a 

 plant was something to make money of 

 in the handling; the prosperous looking 

 and florid gentleman who would look 

 casually at a row of exquisite young 

 mountain laurel — as poetic a flower as 

 ever was made — and say patronizingly: 



"Pretty good material. I'm using 

 a lot of it." Roberta went back to the 

 office in disgust. 



"Hope you didn't sell him any of 

 those lovely things, Michael," she said 

 when O'Connor came into the office. 

 "I wouldn't mind his having privet. I 

 think the Lord must have made catalpas, 

 and privet for just such people — those 

 and Thunberg's barberry! None of 

 them has any feelings!" 



Michael laughed. 



"You're as bad as Mr. Trommel, Miss 

 Davenant ! Whatever would Roseberry 

 Gardens do if it wasn't for Michael to 

 forget about feelin's and sell plants? 

 You've not the right understanding. 



'"Tis an ar-rt, to sell plants, and a 

 foine art. Ther's no pleasure in life 

 like it! To take a man, who has no idea 

 in his head but to buy a bit of somethin' 

 green to stick somewhere and that as 

 cheap as he can, and to wake him up to 

 see how foine is this and this and this! 

 To make him feel there'll be no peace in 

 his sowl until he has a Magnolia stellata 

 or a group of foine azaleas! 'Tis an 

 achievement! And once he larns to 

 buy, he'll buy plants till the day of his 

 death, and thin he'll leave ordthers 

 about plants in the cemint'ry lot and its 

 maintenance. 



"Still, I had trouble to-day. Mrs. 

 Hewson was here — the old lady — wit' 

 her daughter. Now, the old lady '11 buy 

 foine if she's let alone. But Miss 

 Hewson— it's homely she is, and not 

 young neither! And 'tis nothing she 

 thinks of but 'I'm Miss Hewson, I am! 

 And I own the whole State of Pinnsylva- 

 nia, I do!' And it was— 'Now mother! 

 You don't want that!' 'Now, mother, 

 that's quite like a snowball we have!' 

 'Now mother! It's time we were going!' 

 At last I c'ud stand it no longer. 

 (To be continued) 



