“No, no, no!” I answered; “I tell you once for all, I’ve no room for any old man here; and, besides, if I had, a nice thing it would be to have him dying directly the cold weather set in.” “Oh, bless you, mum,” he replied, “a good healthy old man will never die, and look quite lively all the winter through. However, mum, perhaps you’d be kind enough to step round some day to our place, and then we could show you what we’ve got, and you could choose for yourself, mum.” “Yes,” I answered; “perhaps that would be best, and then I can please myself.” When the man had gone, I said to myself: “Well, my fine gentleman, I shall never trouble you again,” for I declare that of all the servants I ever heard of, his seemed to be the worst; for, of course, how was I ever to be able to tell that he was only talking of a set of trumpery plants that he had got for sale. I’m sure, if he had two grains of common sense, he ought to have seen that there was some mistake somewhere; though, for the matter of that, I don’t suppose I should ever have found it out myself, had it not been for the gentleman from the Servants’ Institution calling to see me, scarcely half-an-hour afterwards. And then, bless us and save us, if I didn’t go taking him for the nurseryman, though I certainly must do myself the justice to say that I couldn’t help thinking that he looked rather grand for a gardener, with his white cravat, and black coat buttoned up to his chin, and black kid gloves, with the fingers all out, and looking as crumpled and shrivelled as French plums.