"Here they are," she said. "Some are very dry and scientific, and some are popular, and have coloured pictures. There are catalogues of plants, and schedules of species, and old herbals, and every kind of book you can imagine that has a bearing on the subject. Some are about British flowers and some about foreign ones, and there are others on mosses and ferns and fungi. They used to belong to my uncle; he was extremely fond of botany." "Have you read them all?" asked Cicely. "No, I'm afraid I have rather neglected them. You see, I have had so many lessons to learn. One can't study everything at once, and Mother particularly wants me to work hard at French. Perhaps some day I may attack the natural orders. It will take you a long time to look through every one of these books. I'll leave the case unlocked, so that you can get them out when you like. I know I can trust you not to spoil the covers, and to put each back in its proper place." "We'll be very, very careful of them," Lindsay assured her. "We won't carry them into the garden. We'll sit and read them here at the table." "That will be all right, then," said Monica. "I feel they are rather a particular charge, because they were left to me as a special legacy. I believe my uncle valued them more than anything else in the world. I often think I don't appreciate them as much as I ought." As Monica had said, it took considerable labour to thoroughly examine all the books and search for extracts. Some merely contained long lists of Latin names, and others were far too learned and scientific to interest schoolgirls. A few, however, treated the subject from its romantic side, and quoted passages of poetry such as they wanted. Miss Russell, who had encouraged them to try for the prize, gave them permission to use the library when they pleased; so for the next few days they spent most of their spare time there. It was a pleasant occupation, and one that seemed to bring them into touch with the old poets who had loved Nature so dearly, and sung so charmingly about her blossoms. It was quite wonderful to think that nearly six hundred years ago Chaucer had noticed and recorded the little golden heart and white crown of the daisy; and that King James I of Scotland, while pining as Henry IV's prisoner in Windsor Castle, could remember and write of-- "The sharpe, greene, sweete juniper, Growing so fair with branches here and there". The competition proved most interesting, and, as it happened, was to be connected with unforeseen occurrences. One afternoon, Cicely, who was trying to work her way systematically along the shelves, brought down a thick, bulky volume, bound in brown leather, with metal corners, and entitled _Floral Calendar_. "This must be an old one," she remarked. "Look how yellow the paper is, and there are actually long S's. Someone has scribbled notes all round the edges of the pages." "I wonder if it was Sir Giles Courtenay?" said Lindsay.