April, 1915 
THE GARDEN MAGAZINE 
167 
Maurice Herford was a dreamer as 
well as a recluse. Perhaps he could not 
have formulated to himself exactly what 
he wanted with the coppery-haired 
young girl at Roseberry Gardens, whose 
profile and head outline he loved to 
watch among the plants. She was 
young, unspoile'd, eager. She had her 
young interests and ambitions. He had 
no wish to cut things short for her, it 
would be like stunting a lovely plant, 
he thought. She wished to be a land- 
scape gardener — very well. Then his 
question was, at what point could he 
assist? One thing he knew — it was no 
more her time to love than it had been 
Evelyn Hope's. For her it was the grow- 
ing season, rapid and eager and happy 
and very sweet to watch. 
Meantime, there was no harm in 
visioning, as he did, the broad grassed 
terraces before his own country house 
and Roberta pacing them- — in white she 
would be — he could see her light gown 
trailing over the grass. She would go 
down the steps into the garden; then 
he would see her against the background 
of the tall dark hedges; she would be 
standing beside the hedge now. There 
would be larkspur there, deep dull blue 
larkspur and madonna lilies; he could 
see her bend over them as she was bend- 
ing now over the iris, touching the petals 
gently. 
“You’re very lovely!” he said to the 
vision of Roberta in his own garden, 
and then was startled and aghast to 
find he had spoken aloud, for Miss 
Davenant turned quickly, startled also. 
Then she laughed. 
“Not beside the irises, Mr. Herford!” 
But the spell was broken, the uncon- 
sciousness was gone, the pictures had 
disappeared, and in a most business- 
like fashion the rest of the list was com- 
pleted. 
However, Mr. Maurice Herford drove 
home well pleased with life. In his 
great silent, handsome house the pictures 
would come back to heart’s content. 
Sometimes he even made her sit opposite 
him at dinner, at the heavy mahogany 
table; and he knew how the candle light 
would strike her burnished hair; and 
he saw the wide gray, eager eyes smile 
at him across the bowl of roses. 
Later he sat in the big library, deep 
in a leather chair, and smoked in silence 
in the dusk, while the garden-pictures 
came again. 
“ l Du bist wie eine Blnme he said 
softly. 
Chapter XI 
Roseberry Gardens felt like a house- 
hold after a Christmas celebration when 
the busy season of shipping was over — 
exhausted but happy. Rested a bit, 
then it drew its breath, put things in 
their accustomed order, and took up 
ordinary life again. 
Instead of drawing in the big trucks 
each morning, the horses were set to 
plowing. It was fascinating to watch 
them, for here again, the skill of the old 
gardener showed itself. Jerry could 
drive a horse and plow between the 
rows of rare plants and n.ever injure 
the smallest branch, so well did he and 
the horse know their business. 
There was transplanting of young 
evergreens to be done, late for an 
amateur, but done rapidly and success- 
fully. There were baby trees to be 
shifted from the greenhouse; benches to 
the frames; young grafted magnolias 
and Japanese maples, an army of them, 
to be moved from the houses to the 
frames for their first year on their feet. 
In two more they would be in the open. 
All of this work was superintended by 
Rudolph Trommel who, with the young 
plants, was as solicitous as a mother 
over a baby. One would see him some- 
times bending over, looking down with 
adoring affection on the infant rhodo- 
dendrons, up to their necks in soft, 
damp sphagnum moss, like babies snugly 
tucked in downy blankets. 
Never did Royalist believe more 
passionately in the divine right of the 
aristocracy than did Trommel in the 
precedence which should be accorded 
the aristocrats among plants. 
There was for him no preferred 
nationality. He cared not if the plant 
were Russian or Japanese or English 
or Hollander; if it had the ear-marks of 
the aristocrat among plants, that was 
enough. 
And curiously and amusingly his 
political faith echoed his beliefs in 
horticulture. 
“ ‘ My country, right or wrong,’ iss 
foolishness,” he would say. “That is 
the difficulty. So far as I haf obserfed, 
the political people start with the prem- 
ise that the country’s position iss right 
und has been right. Und that action 
must be adjusted to that conclusion. 
Und when the premise is wrong, naturlich 
there iss difficulty. A man should say, 
‘My fine big country, sometimes I ad- 
mire you. Now you are wrong, und 
this little country iss right. Haf the 
courage und honesty to say so!’ Und 
if efery man so considered, there would 
be no war. A man would say ‘I cannot 
fight for an erroneous opinion,’ und he 
would not, not for a king or a president, 
or a ministry, for why should he lay 
down his life for an opinion which he 
does not hold. Und if he iss shot be- 
cause he will not fight, he has the satis- 
faction of being shot in defence of his 
opinion not in defense of another man’s 
opinion. No animal iss so foolish. 
They are like herds, those big nations, 
und not like indifiduals.” 
“Aren’t you German, Uncle Ru- 
dolph?” asked Roberta. 
The old man drew a deep breath. 
“I speak Cherman, but I thank Gott,” 
he thumped his broad chest, “I’m not 
Cherman! Und I speak French!” but, 
again he thumped his chest, “I thank 
Gott I am not French. Und I speak 
Italian, but I thank Gott I am not 
Italian. Und I speak Swedish, but I 
thank Gott I am not Swedish. Und I 
speak English, but I thank Gott I am 
not English. Und I speak Dutch, but 
I thank Gott I am no Hollander. What 
am I? I am a Switzer! ” And he pounded 
his chest more vehemently than ever 
and breathed deep with patriotism for 
the gallant little country. 
“Was not Zwingli, before Luther, und 
wass he not more broadminded while 
