MRS. MOSS 
There are scarcely any of us who are utterly without 
friends in this world, but who among us can say we know 
our friends thoroughly ? We may know our friends more 
or less well, but there are generally sides to all of us which 
remain, like the farther side of the moon, undiscovered 
and unknown to the other. But there are certain tastes 
which would seem to be more or less magnetic, and the 
possessors of these likings generally become aware of others 
having the same tastes. Such is the love of gardening, 
and there is a sort of freemasonry among flower-lovers 
which often bridges speedily the first slow steps of acquaint- 
anceship. A garden is so reflective, to my mind ; it 
takes on the character of the possessor, at least of the 
possessor who delves in it as some do, with a single mind, 
and careful attention born of the affection he or she bears 
to every inch of ground. This may be the old gardener 
who has bent his back since the days of his prime in taking 
care of the Castle gardens, scarcely known to their nominal 
possessor, the county magnate’s wife, who spends the best 
season of the year in Vanity Fair, where she is only re- 
minded of Spring by the varied and beauteous flower-beds 
in the Park. The squire’s heart may be in his acres, and 
often is, but little he cares for the prim alleys and fancy 
beds his mother instituted, and the lad who had his early 
training under her strict eye takes a pride in keeping up 
as old missus directed. Not of such gardens would I 
speak, but rather of the haunts wherein the love of quiet 
souls bears fruit. In the neighbourhood of country towns 
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