"Oh, I don't know," she said wearily, "I have never inquired. I have shunned them always. Some of them called. I have their cards by me somewhere. But I never returned their visits." "And I have some of their cards by me too; and I have never returned their calls. Such society as they offer does not suit me. Besides, I didn't come here for society." "But you seek mine." "I cannot help it," I said. She left the gate. I thought she was going away. She picked a flower--a white rose, half budded--and brought it me. "This is of my own planting," said she, applying the pearly petals to her delicate nostrils: "all the flowers that you see here are of my own planting." "That bud should symbolise your life, Mrs. Fraser." She opened wide her eyes. "Why?" she asked. "It is unfolding its beauty and sweetness to other eyes than its own. So should you." She flung it from her. Her under lip pouted as though she were about to cry. "If I had thought that flower would have provoked so silly a remark, I would not have picked it," she said. She retired a step. Fearful that I had offended and that she would leave me, I said boldly, "I wish you would allow me to see your flowers. I may learn some hints for my own garden from yours. I faithfully promise not to be poetical again." "You may come in," she answered, curving her mouth into a childish smile; "Shall I open the gate?" "Thank you, I can open it." I entered. "Please don't notice anything from where you stand," she exclaimed, picking up the rake; "come with me to those steps. My flowers look best from there." She stepped forward with a light bounding gait. I could observe nothing but her exquisite shape, her yellow hair and alabaster neck. I think, had I held a pair of scissors, that not thrice the number of sylphs and gnomes which protected the perfumed locks of the matchless Belinda could have prevented me from ravishing the amber curl that floated on her back. She stood on the steps of the door. "There," cried she, looking up at me with the prettiest smile in the world, "now you will see that all the tints are meant to blend. The roses are not blown yet; but you can guess how pretty they will look next to that bed of lilies. My garden will be a rainbow of colours next month. All the hues meet and melt into one another--from that bed down there to the hedge." "Beautiful!" I murmured, thinking of her eyes.