"Oh, Mr. McTrump, that is the first compliment I have received in Pushton," laughed Edith. "I'm a thinkin' it'll not be the last. But I hope ye mind the Scripter where it says, 'We do all fade as a flower,' and ye will not be puffed oop." But Edith, far more intent on horticultural than on scriptural knowledge, asked quickly: "What were you going to set out with that trowel?" "A new strawberry-bed. I ha' more plants the spring than I can sell, sae I thought to put oot a new bed, though I ha' a good mony." "I am so glad. I wish to set out a large bed and can get the plants of you." "How mony do ye want?" said Malcom, with a quick eye to business. "I shall leave that to you when you see my ground. Now see how I trust you, Mr. McTrump." "An' ye'll not lose by it, though I would na like a' my coostomers to put me sae strictly on my honesty." Edith spent the next hour in looking around the garden and greenhouses and watching the old man put out his plants. "These plants are to be cooltivated after the hill seestem," he said. "They are to stand one foot apart in the row, and the rows two feet apart, and not a rooner or weed to grow on or near them, and it would do your bright eyes good to see the great red berries they'll bear." "Shall I raise mine that way?" said Edith. "Weel, ye might soom, but the narrow row coolture will be best for ye, I'm thinkin'." "What's that?" "Weel, just let the plants run togither and make a thick close row a foot wide, an' two feet between the rows. That'll be the easiest for ye, but I'll show ye." "I'm so glad I found you out!" said Edith, heartily; "and if you will let me, I want to come here often and see how you do everything, for to tell you the truth, between ourselves, we are poor, and may have to earn our living out of the garden, or some other way, and I would rather do it out of the garden." "Weel, noo, ye're a canny lass to coom and filch all old Malcom's secrets to set oop opposition to him. But then sin' ye do it sae openly I'll tell ye all I know. The big wourld ought to be wide enough for a bonnie lassie like yoursel to ha' a chance in it, and though I'm a little mon, I would na be sae mean a one as to hinder ye. Mairover the gardener's craft be a gentle one, and I see na reason why, if a white lily like yoursel must toil and spin, it should na be oot in God's sunshine, where the flowers bloom, instead o' pricking the bluid oot o' yer body, and the hope oot o' yer heart, wi' the needle's point, as I ha' seen sae mony o' my ain coontry lassies do. Gude-by, and may the roses in yer cheeks bloom a' the year round." Edith felt as if his last words were a blessing, and started with her heart cheered and hopeful; and yet beyond her garden, with its spring promise, its summer and autumn possibilities, there was little inspiring or hopeful in her new home.