The ground on which the Lambert mansion was built had been a farm, or rather homestead, when its present mistress was born. As the city throve and grew around it, that which had been a modest competency became enormous wealth, in the heart of which she replaced the old homestead with a palace, and turned the old garden and goodly home lot into a wilderness of flowers. These grew and bloomed beautifully, in spite of three or four grand old forest trees which still kept a firm root-hold in the soil. Standing in front, with those broad steps winding up to the entrance through their heavy stone balustrades, you saw nothing of the lovely green paradise that bloomed on the other side of that costly building. The plate glass windows were so brilliant, the stone work so elaborate, that an idea of nature took you by surprise. Leave the avenue only for a minute, turn down the first cross street, and the bloom, the rich greenness, and rustle of leaves, come upon you like enchantment. Through them all, you saw sheets of curved glass rolling downward like sunlit waves of the ocean; and through them come the splendid glow of blossoming flowers, among which you could see birds fluttering, and a fountain shooting up diamonds. This bit of paradise had formerly been old Mr. Lambert’s kitchen-garden, planted around the edge with currant-bushes, and with a thicket of feathery fennel rising like a green fountain in the center. Where the thicket of tea-roses blossomed most richly, he had planted an asparagus bed and sold the product to market women at the highest price he could get. That great plot of heliotrope and scarlet geraniums, gave him a rich harvest of beets and carrots, in the good old days. But of all the old, thrifty life, there was nothing left save one great white rose-tree, that still clambered up a green post, and half buried a pretty wren-house in its sturdy foliage. This wren-house the old man had devised when he planted the rose on his daughter’s birth-day, a bit of affectionate sentiment, she could never force herself to root from the gorgeous splendor of her after life. So there the rose-tree bloomed, and the wren-house gave forth yearly broods of young birds, that in their turn built nests, and filled the little spot with songsters bright and beautiful as the flowers. Mrs. Lambert was a middle-aged lady now, and the white rose had died more than once in its main stock since she was born. Still shoots sprang up from the roots again, and the bush remained itself; while an old, old man, who had worked on the original homestead, and now lived over one of the stables, kept the wren-house thatched, and the ground rich around the old memorial bush, sometimes crying a little as he dug up the earth, and counted the years since the first slender twig was planted by the hand so long cold, while he stood and looked on, wondering if the sprout would take root.