My Friends in their Gardens 
You were sure of sympathy from her, whatever were the 
woe : a pet canary fluttering into the fire, or a son gone to 
the bad, no one ever came to her and went away empty. 
She read a good deal, and worked wonderful embroideries, 
which always eventually disappeared. I fancy they helped to 
keep filled a certain heart-shaped painted box she called her 
“ charity purse,” and which seemed a perfect widow’s cruse. 
She took a great interest in flowers and birds, and Mr. Bell 
hung for her on the window Cocoanuts, whereby the Blue- 
caps disported themselves, to her great delight. He had 
even put up a tiny platform by the window, where Robins 
and Thrushes came and fed. One Robin, indeed, lived in 
her room in winter, and seemed quite at home there. But 
with the Spring days he took to flying in and out, and lived 
more in the Rose-tree which climbed up the side of the 
house. When I knew her he had been a regular Winter 
visitor for two years — a handsome, bright-eyed fellow, who 
seemed perfectly fearless. 
I think of her when the Lime-trees flower, for it was then 
I first made her acquaintance, through the accident of my 
pony-carriage coming to grief in the paved streets of Mire- 
law. Constrained to wait while the damage was being 
remedied at the smiddy, the blacksmith suggested I should 
take refuge just across the road at Rosebank. I had heard 
of Mr. and Mrs. Bell since my coming to the neighbour- 
hood ; I knew their employers. I plucked up courage to 
face the unknown, and went in at the ever-open iron gate 
with its great stone pillars, the old-time county town house 
of some local worthy. The Bluebells in clumps under the 
Limes were dying down, the Lime-flowers were beginning to 
show, and the Bees were humming in the branches. The 
house was thickly covered by a great Gloire de Dijon Rose, 
and a bed of Mignonette under one window scented the 
air. I noticed a queer little square looking-glass hung out- 
side, near the same window. I found out afterwards it was 
a Dutch “ spionnen,” one of the double glasses arranged in 
the Dutch fashion, to reflect all that passed outside for the 
benefit of the poor prisoner within. A smiling country 
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