As she looked, the house door opened; and with a very straitened and touched heart Daisy watched the crippled old creature come from within, crawl down over the door step, and make her slow way into the little path before the house. A path of a few yards ran from the road to the house door, and it was bordered with a rough-looking array of flowers. ?

Rough-looking, because they were set or had sprung up rather confusedly, and the path between had no care but was only worn by the feet of travellers and the hands and knees of the poor inhabitant of the place. Yet some sort of care was bestowed on the flowers themselves, for no weeds had been suffered to choke them; and even the encroaching gra.s.s had been removed from trespa.s.sing too nearly on their little occupation of ground. The flowers themselves shot up and grew as they had a mind. Prince's feather was conspicuous, and some ragged balsams. A few yellow marigolds made a forlorn attempt to look bright, and one tall sunflower raised its great head above all the rest; proclaiming the quality of the little kingdom where it reigned.

The poor cripple moved down a few steps from the house door, and began grubbing with her hands around the roots of a bunch of balsams. Daisy looked a minute or two, very still, and then bade the boy hold her pony; while, without troubling herself about his mystification, she got out of the chaise, and, basket in hand, opened the wicket, and softly went up the path. The neat little shoes and spotless white dress were close beside the poor creature grubbing there in the ground before she knew it, and there they stood still; Daisy was a good deal at a loss how to speak. She was not immediately perceived; the head of the cripple had a three-cornered handkerchief thrown over it to defend it from the sun, and she was earnestly grubbing at the roots of her balsam; the earth- stained fingers and the old brown stuff dress, which was of course dragged along in the dirt too, made a sad contrast with the spotless freshness of the little motionless figure that was at her side, almost touching her. Daisy concluded to wait till she should be seen, and then speak, though how to speak she did not very well know, and she rather dreaded the moment.

It came, when, in throwing her weeds aside, a glance of the cripple saw, instead of stones and gra.s.s, two very neat and black and well-shaped little shoes planted there almost within reach of her hand. She drew herself back from the balsam, and looked sideways up, to see what the shoes belonged to. Daisy saw her face then; it was a bad face; so disagreeable that she looked away from it instantly to the balsams.

"What are you doing to your flowers?" she asked, gently.

The gentle little child-voice seemed to astonish the woman, although after an instant she made surly answer, "Whose business is it?"

"Wouldn't it be easier," said Daisy, not looking at her, "if you had something to help you get the weeds up? Don't you want a fork, or a hoe, or something?"

"I've got forks," said the cripple, sullenly. "I use 'em to eat with."

"No, but I mean, something to help you with the weeds," said Daisy ? "that sort of fork, or a trowel."

The woman spread her brown fingers of both hands, like birds'

claws, covered with the dirt in which she had been digging.

"I've got forks enough," she said, savagely ? "there's what goes into my weeds. Now go 'long! ?"

The last words were uttered with a sudden jerk, and as she spoke them she plunged her hands into the dirt, and bringing up a double handful, cast it with a spiteful fling upon the neat little black shoes. Woe to white stockings, if they had been visible; but Daisy's shoes came up high and tight around her ankle, and the earth thrown upon them fell off easily again; except only that it lodged in the eyelet holes of the boot-lacing and sifted through a little there, and some had gone as high as the top of the boot and fell in. ? Quite enough to make Daisy uncomfortable, besides that the action half frightened her. She quitted the ground, went back to her pony chaise without even attempting to do anything with the contents of her basket. Daisy could go no further with her feet in this condition She turned the pony's head, and drove back to Melbourne.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE ROSE-BUSH.

"Will I take him to the stable, Miss Daisy?" inquired the boy, as Daisy got out at the back door.

"No. Just wait a little for me, Lewis."

Upstairs went Daisy; took off her boots and got rid of the soil they had brought home; that was the first thing. Then, in spotless order again, she went back to Lewis and inquired where Logan was at work. Thither she drove the pony chaise.

"Logan," said Daisy, coming up to him ? she had left Loupe in Lewis's care ? "what do you use to help you get up weeds?"

"Maybe a hoe, Miss Daisy; or whiles a weeding fork."

"Have you got one here."

"No, Miss Daisy. Was it a fork you were wanting?"

"Yes, I want one, Logan."

"And will you be wanting it now?"

"Yes, I want it now, if you please."

"Bill, you go home and get Miss Daisy one o' them small hand forks ? out o' that new lot ? them's slenderer."

"And Logan, I want another thing. I want a little rose-bush ?

and if you can, I want it with a rose open or a bud on it."

"A rose-bush!" said Logan. "Ye want it to be set some place, nae doute?"

"Yes, I do; but I want to set it out myself, Logan; so it must not be too big a bush, you know, for I couldn't manage it."

"Perhaps Miss Daisy had better let me manage it. It's dirty work, Miss Daisy."

"No; I only want the rose bush. I will take care of it, Logan.

Have you got one that I can have?"

"Ou, ay, Miss Daisy! there's a forest of rose bushes ? ye can just please yourself."

"Where is it?"

Seeing his little mistress was greatly in earnest and must be presently satisfied, Logan cast a wistful glance or two at his own proper work in hand which he was abandoning, and walked away with Daisy. The flower garden and nursery were at some distance; but Daisy trudged along as patiently as he. Her little face was busy-looking now and eager, as well as wise; but no tinge of colour would yet own itself at home in those pale cheeks. Logan glanced at her now and then and was, as she said, "very good." He thought he was about the best business, after all, that could occupy him. He directed his steps to a great garden that yet was not the show garden, but hid away behind the plantations of trees and shrubbery. There were a vast number of plants and flowers here, too; but they were not in show order, and were in fact only the reserve stock, for supplying vacancies or preparing changes, or especially for furnishing cut flowers to the house; of which a large quant.i.ty must every day be sent in. There was a very nursery of rose trees, smaller and larger. Logan peered about, very particular in his own line as to how every thing should be done; at last he found and chose just the right thing for Daisy. A slender, thrifty young plant, with healthy strong leaves and shoots, and at the top a bud showing red, and a half opened sweet rose. Daisy was quite satisfied.

"Now where is it going, Miss Daisy?" Logan inquired.

"I am going to plant it out myself, Logan; it is going in a place ? where I want it."

"Surely! but does Miss Daisy know how to plant a rose tree?"

"Won't you tell me how, Logan?"

"Weel, Miss Daisy, there must be a hole dug for it, in the first place; you must take a trowel and make a hole for it ?

But your dress will be the waur!" he exclaimed, glancing at his little mistress's spotless draperies.

"Never mind; only go on and tell me exactly how to manage, Logan."

"Does Miss Daisy intend to do it this afternoon?"

"Yes."

"Aweel, you must take a trowel and make a hole," said Logan, nipping off some useless buds and shoots from the plants in his neighbourhood as he was speaking ? "and be sure your hole is deep as it should be; and make the bottom soft with your trowel, or throw in a little earth, well broken, for the roots to rest on ?"

"How shall I know when my hole is deep enough?"

"Weel, Miss Daisy, it depends on the haighth of the roots ? ye must even try and see till ye get it deep enough; but whatever ye do, keep the crown of the plant above ground."

"And what is the crown of the plant, Logan?"

Logan stooped down, and put his fingers to the stem of a rose tree.

"It's just called the crown o' the plant, Miss Daisy, here where the roots goes one way and the stem springs up another.

Miss Daisy sees, there's a kind o' shouther there."

"No, I don't see," said Daisy.