Then he turned to his book, and Hugh was still at the window, and Heriot gazing into the fire. And as he felt the child's head droop in his hand, Hobb picked him up in his arms and carried him to bed. And he alone of all those brothers had made no choice, nor had they thought to ask him, so accustomed were they to see him jog along without the desires that lead men to their goals--such as Ambrose's thirst for knowledge, and Heriot's passion for beauty, and Hugh's lust for adventure, and Lionel's pursuit of delight. And yet, unknown to them all, he had a heartfelt wish, which, among other things, he had inherited from his mother. For on a height west of the Burgh he had made a garden where, like her, he labored to produce a perfect golden rose. But so far luck was against him, though his height, which was therefore spoken of as the Gardener's Hill, bloomed with the loveliest flowers of all sorts imaginable. But year by year his rose was attacked by a special pest, the nature of which he had not succeeded in discovering. Yet his patience was inexhaustible, and his brothers who sometimes came to his garden when they needed a listener for their achieved or unachieved ambitions, never suspected that he too had an ambition he had not realized, for they saw only a lovely garden of his creating, where wisdom, beauty, adventure, and delight were made equally welcome by the gardener. Now on the March day following the night of the brothers' windy talk-- (But suddenly Martin, with a nimble movement, stood upright on his bough, and grasping that to which the swing was attached, shook it with such frenzy that a tempest seemed to pass through the tree, and the girls shrieked and clung to the trunk, and leaves and apples flew in all directions; and Jessica, between clutching at her ropes, and letting go to ward off the cannonade of fruit, gasped in a tumult of laughter and indignation. Jessica: Have you gone mad, Master Pippin? have you gone mad? Martin: Mad, Mistress Jessica, stark staring mad! March hares are pet rabbits to me! Jessica: Sit down this instant! do you hear? this instant! That's better. What fun it was! Aha, you thought you could shake me off, but you didn't. Are you still mad? Martin: Melancholy mad, since you will not let me rave. Jessica: You are the less dangerous. But I hate you to be melancholy. Martin: It is no one's fault but yours. How can I be jolly when my story upsets you? Jessica: How do you know it upsets me? Martin: You put out your tongue at me. Jessica: Did I? Martin: Yes, without reason. So what could I do but whistle mine to the winds? Jessica: You were too hasty, for I had my reason. Martin: If it was a good one I'll whistle mine back again. Jessica: It was this. That no man in a love-tale should be wiser or braver or more beautiful or more happy than the hero; or how can he be the hero? Yet I am sure Hobb is the hero and none of the others, because he is the only one old enough to be married.