"But no other man ever did. Which is a lesson to us all not to be too set on having our own way, nor to let other people be too set either. I doubt that trouble will come some day from your being so under the thumb of Miss Annabel; I do indeed; and I'm sure I'm sorry in my heart for Cutler when the things in the garden don't come exactly as she meant them to." "I'm sorry for him, too," I added. And I really was. "No, I don't hold with folks as have beautiful houses spending half their time away from them. It isn't right to leave fine houses and beautiful furniture with only a lot of ignorant young housemaids to keep them all clean. It's agen nature. Of course I see after them to the best of my power, but I'm not what I was, and they are more so. I remember a gentleman living near Poppenhall, when my father was a lad, who was always leaving his beautiful house with only servants to look after it, and spending months and months in foreign parts, and the consequence was that once when he was away the house was struck by lightning!" "But I don't see what the difference his absence could make to the lightning," I ventured to suggest. But Ponty would have none of my casuistry. "It made all the difference, Master Reggie; for the house was never struck as long as he was at home. It was just a judgment upon him for leaving it." That was the charm of Ponty: she could always wriggle with grace and dignity out of her own statements. Had she only been a man this gift would assuredly have raised her to eminence in Parliament, and would have made her a shining ornament of any Ministry. After a little more improving conversation with my old nurse I strolled downstairs and out of doors, where I found Annabel talking to a chastened Cutler by the forget-me-not bed. "Come for a stroll round the garden," I said, slipping my arm into hers, "and let us see if the vine has flourished and the pomegranates have budded, as they did in the Song of Solomon." "I don't see how we can do that," replied Annabel, "considering that it is too early for grapes, and we have no pomegranates. As a matter of fact, I don't believe pomegranates ever do grow in England. Do you know whether they do?" "No, I don't, and I don't want to. I only know that vines and pomegranates and all the other glorious things of the Song of Songs seem to be in the air when spring begins. It is a Song of Spring." "It always seems to me a very peculiar sort of song," remarked Annabel; "and I don't understand it and don't pretend to. I remember Uncle William once expounding it at prayers for the sake of the servants, but I doubt if they were much the wiser for his exposition. I know I wasn't." "_I_ should have been," I exclaimed fervently. "It must have been a liberal education to hear him. And to think that it was wasted upon you and the servants, when I--who alone could have appreciated it--was not there!"