"He is the gardener, or rather the head gardener. He came out with his master some thirty or forty years ago, but his old English prejudice will go to the grave with him, I believe." "But why don't he like the Americans?" John laughed. "It would never do for me to attempt to answer that question, Ellie; fond of going to the bottom of things as you are. We should just get to hard fighting about tea-time, and should barely make peace by mid-day to-morrow, at the most moderate calculation. You shall have an answer to your question, however." Ellen could not conceive what he meant, but resolved to wait for his promised answer. As they entered the large and beautifully-kept greenhouse, Hutchinson came from the further end of it to meet them — an old man, of most respectable appearance. He bowed very civilly, and then slipped his pruning-knife into his left hand, to leave the right at liberty for John, who shook it cordially. "And why 'aven't you been to see me before, Mr. John? I've thought it rather 'ard of you: Miss h'Alice has come several times." "The ladies have more leisure, Mr. Hutchinson. You look flourishing here." "Why, yes, Sir — pretty middling, within doors; but I don't like the climate, Mr. John — I don't the climate, Sir. There's no country like h'England, I believe, for my business. 'Ere's a fine rose, Sir — if you'll step a bit this way — quite a new kind — I got it over last h'autumn — the Palmerston it is. Those are fine buds, Sir." The old man was evidently much pleased to see his visitor, and presently plunged him deep into English politics, for which he seemed to have lost no interest by forty years' life in America. As Ellen could not understand what they were talking about, she quitted John's side, and went wandering about by herself. From the moment the sweet aromatic smell of the plants had greeted her, she had been in a high state of delight; and now, lost to all the world beside, from the mystery of one beautiful and strange green thing to another she went wondering and admiring, and now and then timidly advancing her nose to see if something glorious was something sweet too. She could hardly leave a superb cactus, in the petals of which there was such a singular blending of scarlet and crimson as almost to dazzle her sight; and if the pleasure of smell could intoxicate, she would have _reeled_ away from a luxuriant daphne odorata in full flower, over which she feasted for a long time. The variety of green leaves alone was a marvel to her; some rough and brown-streaked, some shining as if they were varnished, others of hair-like delicacy of structure — all lovely. At last she stood still with admiration, and almost held her breath before a white camellia. "What does that flower make you think of, Ellen?" said John, coming up. His friend the gardener had left him to seek a newspaper in which he wished to show him a paragraph. "I don't know," said Ellen — "I couldn't think of anything but itself."