The way in which he was planting potatoes was wonderful, every potato was placed at exactly the right distance apart, and a hole made for it in the general trench; before it was set it was looked at and turned over, and the thumb rubbed against it to be sure that it was sound, and when finally put in, a little mould was delicately adjusted round to keep it in its right position till the whole row was buried. He carried the potatoes in his coat pocket--those, that is, for the row--and took them out one by one; had he been planting his own children he could not have been more careful. The science, the skill, and the experience brought to this potato-planting you would hardly credit; for all this care was founded upon observation, and arose from very large abilities on the part of the planter, though directed to so humble a purpose at that moment. So soon as Amaryllis had recovered breath, she ran down the grass path and stood by the wheelbarrow, but although her shadow fell across the potato row, he would not see her. "Pa," she said, not very loud. "Pa," growing bolder. "Do come--there's a daffodil out, the very, very first." "Oh," a sound like a growl--"oh," from the depth of a vast chest heaving out a doubtful note. "It is such a beautiful colour!" "Where is your mother?" looking at her askance and still stooping. "Indoors--at least--I think--no----" "Haven't you got no sewing? Can't you help her? What good be you on?" "But this is such a lovely daffodil, and the very first--now do come!" "Flowers bean't no use on; such trumpery as that; what do'ee want a-messing about arter thaay? You'll never be no good on; you ain't never got a apron on." "But--just a minute now." "Go on in, and be some use on." Amaryllis' lip fell; she turned and walked slowly away along the path, her head drooping forward. Did ever anyone have a beautiful idea or feeling without being repulsed? She had not reached the end of the path, however, when the father began to change his attitude; he stood up, dropped his "dibbler," scraped his foot on his spade, and, grumbling to himself, went after her. She did not see or hear him till he overtook her. "Please, I'll go and do the sewing," she said. "Where be this yer flower?" gruffly. "I'll show you," taking his ragged arm, and brightening up immediately. "Only think, to open in all this wind, and so cold--isn't it beautiful? It's much more beautiful than the flowers that come in the summer." "Trumpery rubbish--mean to dig 'em all up--would if I had time," muttered the father. "Have 'em carted out and drowed away--do for ashes to drow on the fields. Never no good on to nobody, thaay thengs. You can't eat 'em, can you, like you can potatoes?" "But it's lovely. Here it is," and Amaryllis stepped on the patch tenderly, and lifted up the drooping face of the flower.