Once they had been neat little plots enough, tended with care, watered and watched over with loving solicitude; but fifteen years of partial neglect had wrought a sad change, and although the gardeners kept the weeds from becoming rampant, and maintained a certain brightness in the little sunny garden, yet it was evidently “nobody’s business” to look after the little plot; and it wore—or so Bertie fancied—a forlorn and desolate look. “Would the Squire let me keep it in order, do you think?” he asked of Mrs. Pritchard one day, as they stood together beside the attractive spot. “Why, yes, for sure, dearie,” answered the old housekeeper. “He would as soon your little fingers did the work as the men’s every bit, not to say more. But autumn’s a poor kind of time for garden work? there’s nothing to show for it till the spring comes.” “There are some chrysanthemums to come on still,” answered Bertie, gravely; “and the verbenas are blooming still, and the marguerites too, and the rose-bushes would look nice if the dead leaves and flowers were picked off. William says we get no frost here till December. I think I could make the gardens look quite nice. Tell me which was whose, if you remember. I should like to keep them all clear.” Mrs. Pritchard soon managed to recall all that was needful for the identification of each garden. There were four little plots, for the baby of the house had not been promoted to the honor of a garden of his own; but the rest were soon made out clearly enough, and on the very next day Bertie set about his task. He hoed up all the weeds and raked the brown earth nicely over; he trimmed the box edging, and thinned it out a little, so as to have enough to make a division between each separate garden; and he collected a number of white smooth stones from the shore in order to write the name of each proprietor in the dark soil. It took him some days to get all to his liking; but he worked with a will, and was never wearied of his self-imposed task. The gardener, who watched him at his toil; helped him with advice and occasional assistance, and gave him some hardy flowering plants from pots, to lend a temporary brightness to his plot. Bertie was very proud of his handiwork by the week’s end; and his final triumph was the writing of the names in white stones along the edge of each little garden. David had been very zealous in collecting pebbles of suitable size and color, and Bertie set about this final work with great good will. When all was done he brought Mrs. Pritchard to see, and was much edified by her praise of his care and neatness. “Why, it looks like old times, so it do, for sure,” she exclaimed, as she saw the neatly-weeded plots, each with its own well-trimmed plants still bearing the last of its blooms; but the good woman’s face looked a little grave as she saw the names traced there. “And for what did you do that, dearie?” she asked, a little uneasily. Bertie looked up quickly. “Why shouldn’t I?”