In another apartment was a wilderness of roses, pink and white, and gold and Guelder, Burgundy and Austrian in an endless tangle of color and a delirious, odorous atmosphere that would have enraptured the soul of a lotus eater. No wonder that Mr. Gould abandoned care when he entered the portals of his conservatory. He did not have many warm personal friends, yet surely a man can not be altogether bad who is a friend of the roses. There must be some good in the heart of a man whose eyes grow tender as he bends over a lily. The conservatory became a hobby with Mr. Gould. Every morning after breakfast he would pay a visit to the big glass house to wander for an hour or so among the plants and flowers. While there he would seem to forget everything but the green, tropical tangle about him. In the evening, on his return from the city, he would again stroll through the shadowy aisles of palm and vine, sometimes alone and at others accompanied by the members of his family. Orchids were Mr. Gould’s especial hobby. In this department of his conservatory he had nearly 8,000 orchid plants and over 150 varieties. For some of these delicate, air-fed and angel-painted blossoms Mr. Gould had paid $300--half the amount of a poor man’s wages for a year of toil. In another apartment were nearly 2,000 azaleas, little bits of sunset sky cut into the shape of bells. In the fernery were 600 varieties of ferns, giving the entire place the appearance of a soft green cloud hemmed in glass walls. Just the place for Titania and her fairies. It is strange that this appreciation of pure and poetical things should exist in the soul of a man of such financial grimness. But it was doubtless in Mr. Gould’s nature before his life took on its acquired thirst for gold. When that thirst was in a measure satiated he turned again to his fundamental instincts and his great conservatory was the result. Yet in the summer months Mr. Gould found much pleasure in his open-air garden. It was a big affair, guiltless of weeds, yet it is doubtful if Mr. Gould ever weeded his own potato patch or hoed his own turnips. There were beds for cantaloupes and watermelon, cucumbers, peas, beans, parsley, spinach, carrots, beets, lettuce and cauliflower, and Mr. Gould knew just where to find everything. For a short time every day he would walk through the garden, and doubtless dream of his old barefoot, boyhood days when he looked after his mother’s garden in Delaware county. He was a sort of intermittent farmer and seemed to find a transitory pleasure in everything that pertained to a farm. There was nothing in common, however, between Mr. Gould’s luxurious style of farming and that of the everyday horny-handed knight of the pitchfork and plow.