The Guide plots occupied the strip of land behind St. Benedick’s. In years gone by this part of the grounds had been laid out as a large lawn; but the land had been dug over, and divided into five portions, each of equal size. A great part of the digging and the actual making of the gardens had been done by the Guides themselves, under the supervision and with the help of the head gardener. Very gradually the work had been carried out; but now, several years since the Guide movement had been adopted as part of the Benedick curriculum, Betty’s first glimpse of the gardens was a glimpse that she did not soon forget. The warm days of late spring that year had hastened the growth of the early summer flowers. The gardens lay in a sheltered spot of the grounds, and the wild profusion of their blooming plants--owing to the fact that the gardeners had been absent for a matter of several “good growing” weeks--and the reckless beauty of the luxuriant flower-beds caused city-bred Betty to hold her breath. On the other side of the building the stately garden, with its old-time dignity, through which she had passed yesterday, was peaceful; _this_ garden looked joyous--there was no other word. “Isn’t it lovely?” Gerry quite agreed. “That’s the Daisy plot over there. We choose flowers, all of us. In the War, you know, the beds were used for vegetable growing mostly; and herbs grew there too. I was too little to be here then; but Sybil told us. And then, afterwards, Miss Carey said the girls could show by their gardens how pleased they were that peace had come. It’s--like cheers and flags still, isn’t it?” finished up Gerry. She was right; the gardens were just like cheers and flags. The gardens of youth; just as the gardens of age and dignity lay on the other side of the house. Already great patches of different coloured wallflowers were scenting the air; great clumps of pinks, too, were already open. Dusty-millers and polyanthuses were clustered round about. Pansies of all colours showed their faces; a big lilac-bush was in full bloom; the red hawthorns were nearly over; and fruit blossom was making the dwarf trees planted here and there both pink and white with bloom. “We’ve got a gorse bush in ours,” said Gerry, “because we do so love the smell. We brought it home from a picnic when it was small. It’s small still; but we want to hear the pods cracking in the sun some day when it’s very hot, like they do on the moor. The bees love the gardens, too,” she finished up thoughtfully. So they did; there was no doubt of that. Although nine o’clock had not struck yet, the bees, buzzing and humming over the gardens, seemed to have been marketing for hours.