"Ah, you heard the wind, miss," responds the young gardener, delighted at the opportunity of exchanging a few words with the girl who had but lately come to Springfield, and who had taken his heart captive the moment his eyes rested on her fair face. A thrill actually runs through his foolish heart at the thought that he and she were awake at the same moment listening to the wind. "It is a good sign, miss, for harvest." "I have heard you are weather-wise, John," says Nelly Marston, with a little laugh sweeter to the young fellow than the sweetest chime of bells, or the sweetest music of birds. "Harvest-time is far off. In what way is it a good sign?" "When April blows his horn, it's good for hay and corn. An old saying, miss." "As old, I dare say, as that April showers make May flowers." (Nelly Marston is almost as pleased as the young gardener himself at the opportunity for conversation. She finds Springfield very dull. Every soul in it, with the exception of the mistress, is a servant, and Lady Temple, a childless widow, is not remarkable for cheerfulness or lively manners. There is no one at Springfield with whom the girl can associate.) "These lilies are very, very pretty, John! What is that flower you have in your hand, that one with the spotted leaves?" "This, miss? It isn't very handsome, but I can't resist picking a bit when I first catch sight of it in the spring hedges, because it reminds me of the time when I was a little un, and when me and the others used to play at lords-and-ladies with it. It's almost a medicine flower, too, miss, the cuckoo-pint." "The cuckoo-pint! Is lords-and-ladies another name for it?" "Not a proper name, miss, but that's what we used to call it. It's come down to us in that way." "And the cuckoo flower, too! I have heard of the cuckoo flower, of course, but never of the cuckoo-pint. Lords-and-ladies! Give it to me, John, will you?" "With pleasure, miss," answers the delighted and palpitating John. "I'll pick you a bunch of them, if you like, miss." "Yes, do! But--I am a very curious person, John, always wanting to know things--_why_ is it called lords-and-ladies?" "I don't exactly know, miss, except, perhaps, that it changes more than any other flower." "And lords-and-ladies do that?" "It isn't for me to say, miss. I only repeat what I have heard. There's other names for it. If you'll allow me, miss." John's nerves tingle as he takes the flower from the girl's hand, and in doing so, touches her fingers. The contact of her soft flesh with his is a concentrated bliss to him, and sets his sensitive soul on fire. "You see, I pull down this hood"--(he suits the action to the word, and turns down the outer leaf)--"and here's the Parson in his Pulpit. You might fancy 'twas something like it, miss." "You must not make fun of parsons, John. My father was one."