I felt overwhelmed at this proposal, for I realized that poor Auguste was giving me what he prized most in the world. Perhaps the great Napoleon had supped off grandpapa's _entrées_, or Josephine had tasted an ice or some _brioche_ made by grandpapa's hands. These recipes have for Auguste the mysticism of the lore of Merlin. They are, in his words, _magnifiques_, _superbes_, and the last words of culinary art. "Mes secrets," he generally calls them. Grand'maman bound them in white vellum, and the book has been handed down as a priceless heirloom in Auguste's family. I felt I could hardly thank my cook sufficiently for his kind thought. There Auguste stood in irreproachable white linen cap and coat. No prince could have believed that he could offer a more splendid gift, as he repeated, with a theatrical wave of his hand, "Madame peut tout copier." And then added, with an indulgent smile, "Madame est malade, cela lui fera un plaisir énorme." I rose to the occasion and said, as "bonne ménagère." I found it difficult to express my gratitude. At this Auguste retired a step, and then, with a courtly bow, exclaimed grandly, his eye upon my embroidery which lay near on a chair, "Il faut que les artistes se consolent dans les jours de tristesse," and so saying, vanished to reign over his own kingdom. A little later Burbidge came in to see me. In his hand he held a bunch of roses, neatly tied with green matting, a new fad of mine. Amongst the roses that he had brought me, I found a lovely Caroline Testout, of great size and beauty, of a delicate pink with a glow of richer colour in the centre. Then there was an open bud of charming Thérèse Levet, and a full blown splendour of Archiduchesse Marie Immaculata, with its curious red-brick tints; and two or three blossoms of the dear old-fashioned Prince Camille de Rohan of a deep, brownish crimson hue. "Here's a few on 'em, just a sprinklin'," said Burbidge. "But oh, 'tis a pity as yer can't see 'em growin'! The sop of rain has brought 'em out, like the sunshine brings out chickens from under a hen's wing. They be popping and peering in the garden, as if they had the Lord Almighty to look at 'em Hisself." "Perhaps He is," I said with a smile. To this Burbidge didn't give direct assent, but like a true Shropshire man, he declared that it was his belief, if the Lord was on earth, it might pleasure Him to see the place, for the whole of the red-walled garden was a garland of flowers. "There be irises, and roses, and peonies; and it be hard to tell the colours. There be all sorts and all shades, most like a glass window in the Abbey Church at Shrewsbury." And Burbidge added, with that true sense of poetry that belongs to the peasant, that "the Wrekin doves they be cooing and fluttering round the firs, same as in a real poem." [Sidenote: A POSY OF ROSES]