[Synopsis of preceding chapters: Roseberry Gardens is the name of a nursery of the old type, with azaleas, magnolias, etc., in profusion. The owner, Mr. Worthington, is a stately, scholarly 
gentleman of the old school, yet an advanced thinker, a plant lover always anxious to succeed with new introductions. Rudolph Trommel, the foreman, a Swiss, grows plants rather because he loves 
them than from any business instinct, and indeed takes exception to Michael’s having sold a certain plant because it was such a fine specimen. He also is a shrewd judge of human nature. Among 
the customers is Maurice J. Herford, a dilletante admirer of plants, an artist. Roberta Davenant is secretary to Mr. Worthington and the protege of old Rudolph Trommel, through whose intro- 
duction she procured the position and who is constantly instructing her in garden craft and plant! knowledge. From time to time Michael so arranges things that Roberta has to act as guide and 
saleswoman to Maurice Herford. Roberta is self reliant, unconventional and somewhat jolts the old time residents of the place. Paul Fielding, a landsr ,oe student and relative of Major Pomerane, 
a resident, is another visitor to the Nursery. He would go horseback riding with Roberta in the early mornings, to the secret delight of the Major, who twits his nephew with remarks concerning 
Roberta’s interest in the plants of the Nursery and of Maurice’s interest in those same plants! 
One August day Michael suggests teaching Roberta how to bud and incidentally talks about the popular use of a few of the commonest hedge plants to the neglect of others better but less used. 
Settling down to the work of budding, Michael becomes reminiscent and tells of how a year ago Mr. Herford came, suggesting he go with him to Europe. The lesson in budding is progressing.) 
S OON they came alongside of Pat McCune, 
who was tying, in the next row, the young 
trees Michael had already budded. 
McCune was short and broad shouldered, with 
a grizzled beard, and clad in baggy trousers and a 
bright red undershirt. 
“ ’Tis warrm,” he remarked. 
“It is,” said Michael, “ ’tis always warm buddin’ 
an’ we’ve been doin’ it in August f’r thirty years. 
But it’s been warmer than to-day!” 
“It has,” assented McCune. Then he coughed. 
“ ’Twas warrmer at the battle of Gettysburg! Be- 
gor! but that was hot work!” 
“Were you there, McCune?” asked Roberta, in- 
terested. 
“Oi was,” said McCune firmly. “Oi was wan av 
them that resisted Pickett’s Charge. The bullets 
wint whistling by like it was hailstones an’ niver an 
umbrelly! There was wan wint t’rough me sleeve 
an’ grazed me ar'rm, an’ another t’rough the tail av 
me coat an’ buried itsilf in a comrade’s breast who 
fell at me side, but we pressed on!” 
“McCune,” said Michael reproachfully, “’Tis 
sorry Oi am to hear ye say that. Where were ye 
goin’ whin the innemy had a chanst at the flyin’ tails 
av yer coat?” 
“I’m tellin’ yez there was a high wind. I just 
turned a minute sideways to load me musket whin — 
whisht, wint the bullet, t’rough me coat an’ buried 
itsilf in me comrade’s chist an’ he fell at me side, 
mortally wounded. Thin, wid the bullets rainin’ 
round me Oi carried him to safety!” 
“ Wasn’t it whin ye were sprintin’ f’r safety that 
the bullet hit?” 
“ ’Twas not!” replied Patrick, with dignity. 
“But I thought,” pursued Michael, “that ’twas 
the navy ye ware in, wid Farragut an’ the sailor 
b’ys.” 
“Oi was,” said McCune, “Oi enlisted first in the 
navy. Oi was wid Farragut at Mobile. Oi was up 
an’ the faremast in chaarge av a gun mesilf, an’ ould 
Farragut says to me, says he, ‘ Pat, me b’y, y’r as 
gallant a b’y as there is in the navy!’ says he! 
‘There’s me hand!’ says he.” 
“But I thought ye was at Gettysburg,” said Mi- 
chael, “an’ if I remember right, Mobile was on a 
Chusday an’ Gettysburg began on a Wed-ens-d’y.” 
McCune nodded. 
“ ’Tis so,” he said, “they rushed us up t’ help in 
th’ fight. We wasn’t in at the first day but we were 
there f’r the second, and well was it f’r the Union, 
we reached there, in the nick av time!” 
“Go long wid yez,” said Michael. 
Just then the gong sounded. “ ’Tis well,” said 
O’Connor, “ ’tis like the cock crowin’ f’r Saint Peter. 
’Tis time ye stopped, McCune!” 
“ I hope he goes to Confession, the ould sinner,” 
said Michael, as he and Roberta were walking back 
to the shop. Then he chuckled. “There’s niver a 
battle in the war that Pat McCune wasn’t there! 
“ ’Tis prosilytes we’ve been making, Miss Dave- 
nant, the morning. Turning common little heathen 
av seedling apples into children av grace. They’ll 
niver be common apple trees again; they’re Pyrus 
Malus Parkmanni, an’ ’tis you an’ me have con- 
verted and baptized them ! ” 
Chapter XIV 
Major Pomerane sat on his shaded veranda — a 
broad comfortable veranda which overlooked his 
drive and his garden. The Major was broad and 
comfortable also — very comfortable he looked as he 
sipped his coffee, eye-glasses on his nose, the morn- 
ing paper in his hand, pipe beside him on the 
table for future attention, and at his feet a shaggy, 
English sheep dog. At a little distance lay a 
setter, his nose along a patch of the morning sun- 
shine. The setter was dozing, occasionally open- 
ing one eye to see if his master had finished 
his breakfast, then closing it again and resum- 
ing his own dreams. Suddenly he lifted his head, 
opened both eyes, cocked an ear and uttered a 
short, sharp bark. The Major laid down his pa- 
per, lifted his eye-glasses from his nose, and looked 
down the drive. 
Paul Fielding was coming in the gate, mounted on 
his big chestnut and riding slowly. 
“Morning, Paul,” called the Major as his visitor 
approached. 
“Morning, Cousin Jim,” responded the young 
man. 
He rode up the drive, dismounted, fastened his 
horse to the hitching post, and came up on the 
veranda. 
“Morning,” said the Major again. “Just in 
time, Paul! Have some breakfast. Sam, bring an- 
other cup for Mr. Fielding, and hot rolls!” 
“No, thank you, Cousin Jim, I don’t want break- 
fast.” 
“What! At your age!” He looked keenly at his 
visitor. “Good Lord, Paul, you look as cheerful as 
a wet hen! What’s the trouble?” 
“Nothing,” responded Paul gloomily. 
“Well," well,” said the Major briskly, “look at the 
pretty sunshine! Listen to the little birds! 
‘Aint dis a mighty pretty mornin’,” 
chanted his host. 
“No, it ‘ain’t!’” said Paul. 
“Never mind — no troubles in the world that good 
coffee and good tobacco and a good dog can’t give 
them a handsomer aspect! Better change your 
mind, son!” he said, as the darkey set the extra 
place at the table. 
Paul shook his head and in silence flicked the dust 
from his boots with his riding whip. “ Damn Rose- 
berry Gardens!” he remarked, at last. 
Major Pomerane chuckled. “Tut! tut! Most 
interesting place, wonderful collection! Only com- 
mercial nursery in the country that ranks with an 
arboretum. Finest place in the world for a young 
man to — — ” 
22i 
“Shucks!” said Paul. 
“Um-um,” said the Major, meditatively. “So I 
gather that our young friend Roberta has gone out 
to work in the gardens with the old fossils, like a pro- 
perly conducted, business-like young person; and 
she wouldn’t go riding with you! Shocking taste! 
What are the young women of to-day coming to! 
Too bad!” finished the Major, sympathetically. 
The setter got up and went over to Paul. 
“Here, Michael,” called Major Pomerane, “that 
young man isn’t safe company for a nice doggie; he 
may bite.” 
“Michael!” echoed Fielding. “I thought this 
was old Zip Coon.” 
“Used to be Zip Coon and Tramp,” he indicated 
the sheep dog. “But I changed their names. I 
shall called them Michael and Maurice Herford — 
they work so well together.” 
“Damn Maurice Herford!” said Paul. 
“Tut, tut! Don’t be so belligerent. Fine man, 
Herford! Finest collection of evergreens on Long 
Island; something of a scholar, too. Knows coins.” 
Then he looked at Paul Fielding’s face. “Too 
bad, son!” Then he said, soberly, “Do you really 
care so much, Paul?” 
“More than for anything else in the world, Cou- 
sin Jim! Good Lord! Why do you suppose I’m 
killing time here when I’m crazy to be down at Par- 
adise Park, and at the work I want to do? ” 
“Thought you wanted to do landscape garden- 
ing.” 
“That was Dad’s idea. What I want to do is to 
get the old place back on a paying basis, so we don’t 
have to sell off any — that’s what I want to do. I 
want to try the rice growing again. It was profit- 
able years ago; it ought to be profitable now.” 
“Did you ever tell Roberta that!” 
Fielding shook his head. “It’s not the commercial 
side that interests her.” 
“Wrong tack, my boy. She’d respect you a heap 
more if you had something to do beside dangling. 
You young ones make lots of fool mistakes. When 
you want something you just sit down beside it or 
stand in front of it, like a three-year old, and holler 
for it. That’s where the old fossils have you beaten 
to a finish — they’re so mighty cool-headed!” 
“What do you know about it?” Paul asked sus- 
piciously. 
“Lots!” said the Major. “Tell you what, son, a 
man who spends some years in the observatory 
knows a heap more about earthquakes than the folk 
who are actually in them. When a man is engulfed 
in the hot ashes and lava of passion and sentiment,” 
said the Major grandiloquently, “it is not easy for 
him to observe the proper direction his energies 
should take. I’ll tell you one thing, son. Those old 
fossils aren’t rivals to be despised. ’T wouldn’t 
hurt you to observe their methods. I never wanted 
to marry, but I know exactly how to go about it if 
I did. I’d have married Roberta’s mother in a 
minute.” 
