She was in the midst of a curved bank where the copsewood had no doubt been recently cut away, and which was a perfect marvel of primroses, their profuse bunches standing out of their wrinkled leaves at every hazel root or hollow among the exquisite moss, varied by the pearly stars of the wind-flower, purple orchis spikes springing from black-spotted leaves, and deep-grey crested dog-violets. On one side was a perfect grove of the broad-leaved, waxen-belled Solomon’s seal, sloping down to moister ground where was a golden river of king-cups, and above was a long glade between young birch-trees, their trunks gleaming silvery white, the boughs over head breaking out into foliage that looked yellow rather than green against the blue sky, and the ground below one sheet of that unspeakably intense purple blue which is only produced by masses of the wild hyacinth. “There!” said Allen. “There!” re-echoed the children. “Oh mammy, mammy dear! Is it not delicious?” Carey held up her hand in silence, for a nightingale was pouring out his song close by; she listened breathlessly, and as it ceased she burst into tears. “O mother!” cried Allen, “it is too much for you.” “No, dear boy, it is--it is--only too beautiful. It is what papa always talked of and would have so enjoyed.” “Do you think he has better flowers up there?” asked Babie. “I don’t think they can be much better.” And without waiting for more she plunged down among the primroses and spread her little self out with a scream of ecstasy.