tall pink foxgloves; the worn-out plum trees against the wall behind were threaded and festooned with thick trailers of yellow and scarlet nasturtium; and in front of the rockery, her especial pride, was a great bed of velvet pansies, rich with every hue of the rainbow. They were flanked by simple annuals, filmy pink poppies, orange escholtzias and sweet-scented mignonette; and in a bed by themselves were the gold and crimson snapdragons which the Urchin had begged for her from the gardener at the big house. She must needs dig up a centipede, one of the small yellow ones. They were her special dislike. The centipede did not like being dug up either, and writhed himself into seven different sets of tangles at once, as is the way of the smaller centipedes. "You horrid little yellow beast," she said, forgetting that he could understand, and made a dab at him with her spade, which, to her relief, missed him. She felt she had done her duty by hitting at him, but did not hide from herself that she had really missed him on purpose. "Little's all right," said the centipede, "and yellow's all right; and though I'm not really a beast, we will let it go at that. But I'm not a bit horrid." "But I don't like you," said Fiona, "and you wriggle so." "In the circles in which I move," said the centipede, "my wriggling is much admired. And the mere fact that you do not like me--which, I may remind you, is only a subjective impression and has neither objective validity nor permanent value--does not entitle you to call me names. You ought to have learnt better, with that bangle of yours. For all you know, I may be a model of the more unselfish virtues." "But you eat the roots of my flowers," said Fiona. "That is the first I have heard of it," said the centipede. "But one lives and learns. It need not be the same one, though, who does both. So in the present case I propose that I should live and you should learn." "I wasn't going to kill you really," said Fiona. The centipede bowed. "A little courtesy does oil the creaking machinery of life, doesn't it?" he said. "Please lift me up, for I have something to tell you, and your head is so far away. Shouting at you hurts my throat." Fiona stooped down and took up the little yellow creature in her hand. "Congratulations," said the centipede. "We _are_ getting on. You wanted badly to shudder, and you didn't. We shall make something of you yet. My old friend the bookworm--who lives in your father's library, by the way--has recently supplied me with a new quotation from the great poet Virgil, who had once, you may remember, quite a reputation as a magician. It was to the effect that if you couldn't get what you wanted by beginning at the top, you should start again at the bottom. I am the bottom. I am not the _very_ bottom, but I am near enough to it for your purpose. Now you see what you have gained by not killing me." "I don't see anything yet, I'm afraid," said Fiona.