“Like a wild one!” I almost shrieked, horror-struck at the idea of intrusting my sweet, little, helpless angel of a Kate to the care of a creature with any such extraordinary propensities. “Too like a wild one for me. I don’t want any such things about my house.” “But if you object to their running about so much, mum,” he went on, “it’s very easy to tie them up and give them a good trimming occasionally, and then you can keep them under as much as you please.” “I don’t want one,” I replied, “that will require so much looking after, but one that you know could be trusted anywhere--especially as there will be a little baby to be taken care of.” “A little baby! Oh! then, if that’s the case, mum,” he had the impudence to say, “I should think you had better have a monthly one while you are about it.” “A monthly one!” I exclaimed, thinking he was referring to a second Mrs. Toosypegs, instead of a rose; “what can you be thinking of? I tell you I don’t want anything of the kind.” “Yes, but I’m sure you don’t know how hardy they are, mum,” he added, quite coolly. “I can give you my word, we’ve got one that’s out now, mum, that went through all the severe frosts of last winter with nothing more than a bit of matting as a covering at night-time. Though, for the matter of that, almost all our monthlies are the same, and don’t seem to care where they are put, for really and truly I do think that they would go on just as well, mum, even if their beds were chock full of gravel.” “I tell you I don’t want anything of the kind,” I said, half offended at what (thanks to that blundering Mr. Dick Farden,) I thought very like the man’s impudence. “I hope no offence, mum,” he replied; “but you see I must run over what we’ve got. Now, there’s polianthuses. I’m sure you couldn’t have anything much nicer or quieter than that, mum.” “Polly who?” I inquired. “Anthus, mum,” he replied. “Well, what’s that one like?” I asked. “Oh! the sort is common enough, mum,” he continued--“not very tall, and rather delicate, and will generally have five or six flowers in a cluster at the head--wants a glass, though, if the weather sets in very cold, mum--and----” “There, that’s enough,” I interrupted, “I’m sick and tired of those common kind of things--they wouldn’t have a glass here, I can tell them.” “Maybe, then, mum,” he went on, “as it don’t seem as we can suit you with any of those I’ve mentioned, perhaps you don’t want such a thing as an old man.” “Old man!” I cried. “No, what on earth should I ever do with any old man here, I should like to know?” of course, little dreaming that he was alluding all the while to the plant of that name. “Oh! I beg your pardon, mum,” he replied, “but I thought yours was just the place for a very fine, and remarkably handsome one that we’ve got, and it struck me that you might have a spare bed that you would like to fill, especially as it would be little or no extra expense for you.”