"This is bare prose after that," returned Queenie, as they walked up the steep narrow garden, between rows of cabbages and bushes of pale pink and white roses. All sorts of homely old-fashioned flowers bloomed amongst the beans and peas and other vegetables, red and orange nasturtiums, tall spikes of lavender, blue larkspur, and masses of sweet mignonette. "No, not all bare prose," correcting herself and pointing to a bed of pansies, looking in the sunshine like a cluster of gold and violet butterflies poised on motionless velvet wings; "there is a bit of floral painting for you; there is a whole allegory in that." "An allegory! why, Queenie, you are actually becoming poetical. If Mr. Logan were here he would tell us that that is a species of violet--_Viola tricolor_--called also pansy." "Believe me, there is a higher meaning in that still, butterfly life. Look at this one with glorious violet wings and just one golden eye; does it not look as though it ought to fly instead of remaining so humbly on its green stalk?" "Well, my 'Queen of Sheba,'" half impatiently and half amused, "what do you make of that? I am not a Solomon, to answer all your hard questions." "I think," returned Queenie, hesitating, "that it means to teach us that the true heart's-ease remains content in its own place; it has wings, but they are not ready for flight, they just carry the dew and the sunshine, that is all. Brave little golden hearts, always radiant and smiling," she continued, lightly brushing the bloom with her finger tip. "Mr. Logan!" ejaculated Cathy, elevating her eyebrows in a sort of comic despair, "will you suggest some appropriate answer in return for this poetical dissertation," and Queenie, blushing hotly, dropped the flowers and turned round. "My dear young lady, I am afraid I startled you," said Mr. Logan benevolently; "but I did not like to play the eavesdropper any longer, though Miss Catherine was mischievous enough to try and keep me in the background. As it is, I have stolen a very pretty fancy, which I know will delight Charlotte." "Miss Marriott, Mr. Logan," returned Cathy, with much solemnity. "I know what a stickler you are for conventionalities and etiquette, Mr. Logan, and I could not suffer you to utter another sentence without due introduction." "Is not that a slight deviation from the truth, my dear Miss Catherine, when you know, at least every one must know, my little failings in that respect? still I was not aware of your friend's name, and I dare say she was equally ignorant of mine." "No, indeed," returned Queenie, trying to maintain her gravity. Cathy's eyes were dancing with fun, like a mischievous kitten; the wicked little creature knew how difficult it was for her friend not to laugh outright.