“The secret, my dear Clara, is the secret of all honest success—eternal vigilance. She failed in several things at first. Her tube-roses, for example, grew all stalks and no flowers. Then the insects troubled her. She fought them by main force at first, but now she has made a discovery—a vase of carbolic soap-suds did not quite meet her expectations, so she added laudanum to it—pure empirical experiment, you see. That was an improvement; then she put in the vase one of the doctor’s nastiest old pipe-bowls, and really, I think that was a great discovery. With a little mop she washes the bark of her plants with this mixture; every day some plant is treated, and so she keeps all insects at bay. She actually cried with joy when I promised to build the hot-house. She had not dared to hope for so much, though she often asked me how far I thought one hundred dollars would go towards building a little one, ten feet square. You know I never spent the hundred from Dan, which you gave into my keeping. She thinks it went into the conservatory, but I put something with it and put it by for Min’s education; but that, also, is one of my secrets.” But the movement of our story is too slow. We will therefore make a rapid dash over just one year. During this time, Clara, who had taken up her residence with Mrs. Buzzell, suffered many a sleepless night, thinking over her buried hopes, and sometimes feeling as if her life was an utter failure; but the gloom was always dissipated with the hour or so of pleasant morning work with Susie among the flowers, and with the pleasant reunion afterward at the breakfast-table. Mrs. Buzzell, though quite feeble, was always present in her arm-chair, wrapped in her shawl, and Min, also seated in her high chair, joyous as a bird and as full of animal spirits as a kitten, and of mischief as a young monkey. Her special duty was to arrange a bouquet for the centre of the breakfast table, having _carte blanche_ to use her own taste on the flowers and leaves that her mother gave her for the purpose. Mrs. Buzzell used to praise their arrangement without much discretion, but Min had learned by this time to separate her scarlet and blue flowers by white ones, or green leaves, and when she won a compliment from her mother she was always delighted. On one of these occasions, Min sat pouting and would not touch her food. “What is the matter with my little pet?” asked Clara, twisting one of the child’s long, golden tresses. “I shan’t tell.”