And the vegetables seemed as subject to diskerridgement as the flowers, though it was always referred to as “blight.” There were the broad beans, for instance; I had given him two quarts of seed, and indicated where I would like them planted. They were a special prize strain that had been sent to me by a famous firm of seedsmen, who had been moved to this generous deed on reading some of the chronicles of the Flower-patch when they were first published in _The Woman’s Magazine_. The head of the firm wrote me that they were a new mammoth variety, and they would be pleased if I would try them in my cottage garden. We planned great things when those broad beans should be ready. Two quarts would make about ten rows, we reckoned, quite a goodly plantation for us; and we decided that as we should have plenty, considering our small household, we would be extravagant and gather our first dishful when they were quite young and in that deliciously tender state that is unknown to the town dweller, who seldom sees a broad bean till it is a tough old patriarch, and in such a condition considers it a coarse vegetable. It was a cold day in February when I handed the seed to Ananias; we were returning to London the same day, so we beguiled part of the long journey discussing whether that first dish should be accompanied by parsley sauce and boiled ham, or whether to fry the ham and have the broad beans given one turn in the frying-pan after they were boiled. The subject seemed more and more vital the further we got along the road, for we couldn’t get luncheon baskets (no, not the War; it was before that event, and due to one of the many cheerful strikes with which our pre-war existence was punctuated), and the bananas and Banbury cakes we purchased _en route_ seemed woefully unsatisfying. Hence, it was pleasant, but very tantalizing, to contemplate that dish of beans, and we finally agreed that the ham should be fried, and that we would dig some new potatoes specially for the occasion. We sat and meditated on that meal, as the winter landscape flew past us, and the more we meditated the more violently hungry we got. You see, the beans really assumed more than ordinary importance. But alas, when bean time came, all that decorated the bean plot was one miserable row of wretched-looking stalks. “It’s that thur blight agin,” remarked Ananias; “I watched it a-comin’ up the valley.” “But why didn’t you pinch off the tops, if they were showing blight?” I inquired; “then they would have made fresh shoots lower down.” He shook his head and looked at me pityingly: “We don’t do our beans like that a-here.” “And where are all the other rows,” I asked; “I suppose blight didn’t carry off roots and all of the remainder?” “No, ’twere slugs, I warrant, or birds, or else the seed were stale, maybe.” Ursula carefully turned over the rest of the ground later on, but never a glimmer of a benighted bean did she find.