5 ° 
THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
realise the sullen skies that looked down upon its patient 
inception. 
The herbaceous borders have not, of course, come yet 
into their full inheritance of bloom, but there is in them 
just so much implicit promise and exquisite perform¬ 
ance as touches close upon that golden mean which 
embraces near hope and present happiness in one. My 
single anemones glow like jewels in enamelled lines of 
purple, blue, and vermilion; of amethyst, pearl, and 
opal, against their curled green field of foliage. Al¬ 
though these have no fragrance, they are informed with 
so satisfying a beauty that it is only a waft from the 
almond-scented masses of the gillyflowers that brings to 
mind the one thing wanting—and, even so, the wall¬ 
flowers are rich enough in perfume for all. A little 
farther on, at irregular intervals, between the young 
starry leafage and dimly purpling spires of the lupins 
that are to blossom later, glitter innumerable rayed gilt 
suns *of the leopard’s-bane, most generous and gay of 
early flowers, whose ceremonial title is given as doroni- 
cum. For my part, I think the old is better, although 
I have never come at the true inwardness of its original 
meaning: it is a diversion, say some, from this or that 
obsolete name, remotely significant of ancient usages; 
but few of my theorists agree, and I myself am best 
content with the vague derivation that is propped upon 
romance. In the shelter of the high western wall that 
goes to meet the pergola grows a spacious group of those 
cool grey-green wands set on either side with their 
double rows of long strangely fashioned leaves, and hung 
with white waxen bells stained snowdrop-wise with faint 
