Mrs. Bates had stepped to her single little window. "Isn't it a gem?" she asked, "I had it made to order; one of the old-fashioned sort, you see--two sash, with six little panes in each. No weights and cords, but simple catches at the side. It opens to just two widths; if I want anything different, I have to contrive it for myself. Sometimes I use a hair-brush and sometimes a paper-cutter."... She dropped her voice. "Did you ever have a private secretary?" "Me?" called Jane. "I'm my own." "Keep it that way," said Mrs. Bates, impressively. "Don't ever change--no matter how many engagements and appointments and letters and dates you come to have. You'll never spend a happy day afterwards. Tutors are bad enough--but thank goodness, my boys are past that age. And men-servants are bad enough--every time I want to stir in my own house I seem to have a footman on each toe and a butler standing on my train; however, people in our position--well, Granger insists, you know."... "And now business is over," she continued. "Do you like my posies?" She nodded towards the window where, thanks to the hair-brush, a row of flowers in a long narrow box blew about in the draft. "Asters?" "No, no, no! But I hoped you'd guess asters. They're chrysanthemums--you see, fashion will penetrate even here. But they're the smallest and simplest I could find. What do I care for orchids and American beauties, and all those other expensive things under glass? How much does it please me to have two great big formal beds of gladiolus and foliage in the front yard, one on each side of the steps? Still, in our position, I suppose it can't be helped. No; what I want is a bed of portulaca, and some cypress vines running up strings to the top of a pole. As soon as I get poor enough to afford it I'm going to have a lot of phlox and London-pride and bachelor's-buttons out there in the back yard, and the girls can run their clothes-lines somewhere else." "It's hard to keep flowers in the city," said Jane. "I know it is. At our old house we had such a nice little rose-bush in the front yard. I hated so to leave it behind--one of those little yellow brier roses. No, it wasn't yellow; it was just--'yaller.' And it always scratched my nose when I tried to smell it. But oh, child"--wistfully--"if I could only smell it now!" "Couldn't you have transplanted it?" asked Jane, sympathetically. "I went back the very next day after we moved out, with a peach basket and fire shovel. But my poor bush was buried under seven feet of yellow sand. To-day there's seven stories of brick and mortar. So all I've got from the old place is just this furniture of ma's and the wall-paper." "The wall-paper?"