you may say. Look here, Miss Esther, – here's theHepatica for you.'
Esther sprang forward to where Christopher was softly pushing dead leaves and sticks from a little low bunch of purple flowers. She stretched out her hand with the trowel, then checked herself.
'Won't that grow either, Christopher?'
'It'll grow here, Miss Esther. See, – ain't that nice?' he said, as he bared the whole little tuft.
Esther's sigh came from the depths of her breast, as she looked at it lovingly.
'This is Hepatica acutiloba. I dare say we'd find the other, if we had time to go all over the other side of the hill.'
'What other?'
'The americana, Miss Esther. But I'm thinking, them greens must go in the pot.'
'But what is this lovely little thing? What's its name, I mean?'
'It's the Hepatica, Miss Esther; folks call it liverleaf. We ought to find the Aquilegia by this time; but I don't see it.'
'Have you got dandelions enough?'
'All I'll try for. Here's something for you, though,' said he, reaching up to the branches of a young tree, the red blossoms of which were not quite out of reach; 'here's something pretty for you; here's Acer rubrum.'
'And what is Acer rubrum?'
'Just soft maple, Miss Esther.'
'Oh, that is beautiful! Do you know everything that grows, Christopher?'
'No, Miss Esther; there's no man living that does that. They say it would take all one man's life to know just the orchids of South
America; without mentioning all that grows in the rest of the world.
There's an uncommon great number of plants on the earth, to be sure!'
'And trees.'
'Ain't trees plants, mum?'
'Are they? Christopher, are those dandelions weeds?'
'No, Miss Esther; they're more respectable.'
'How do you know they're not weeds?'
Christopher laughed a little, partly at his questioner, partly at the question; nevertheless the answer was not so ready as usual.
'They ain't weeds, however, Miss Esther; that's all I can tell you.'
'What are weeds, then?'
'I don't know, mum,' said Christopher grimly. 'They're plants that has no manners.'
'But some good plants have no manners,' said Esther, amused. 'I know I've heard you say, they ran over everything, and wouldn't stay in their places. You said it of moss pink, and lily of the valley. Don't you remember?'
'Yes mum, I've cause to remember; by the same token I've been trimming the box. That thing grows whenever my back is turned!'
'But it isn't a weed?'
'No mum! No mum! The Buxus is a very distinguished family indeed, and holds a high rank, it does.'
'Then I don't see what is a weed, Christopher.'
CHAPTER II
AT HOME
Upon reaching home Esther sought to place her bloodroot in safety, giving it a soft and well-dug corner in her little plot of garden ground. She planted it with all care in the shadow of a rose-bush; and then went in to put her other flowers in water.
The sitting-room, whither she went, was a large, low, pleasant place; very simply furnished, yet having a cheerful, cosy look, as places do where people live who know how to live. The room, and the house, no doubt, owed its character to the rule and influence of Mrs. Gainsborough, who was there no longer, and to a family life that had passed away. The traces abode still. The chintz hangings and the carpet were of soft colours and in good harmony; chairs and lounges were comfortable; a great many books lined the walls, so many indeed that the room might have been styled the library. A portfolio with engravings was in one place; Mrs. Gainsborough's work-table in another; some excellent bronzes on the bookcases; one or two family portraits, by good hands; and an embroidery frame. A fine English mastiff was sleeping on the rug before the fire; for the weather was still cold enough within doors to make a fire pleasant, and Colonel Gainsborough was a chilly man.
He lay on the couch when Esther came in with her flowers; a book in his hand, but not held before his eyes. He was a handsome man, of a severe, grave type; though less well-looking at this time because of the spiritless, weary, depressed air which had become his habit; there was a want of spring and life and hope in the features and in the manner also of the occupant of the sofa. He looked at Esther languidly, as she came in and busied herself with arranging her maple blossoms, her Hepatica and one or two delicate stems of the bloodroot in a little vase. Her father looked at the flowers and at her, in silence.
'Papa, aren't those beautiful?' she asked with emphasis, bringing the vase, when she had finished, to his side.
'What have you got there, Esther?'
'Just some anemones, and liverleaf, and bloodroot, and maple blossoms, papa; but Christopher calls them all sorts of big names.'
'They are very fragile blossoms,' the colonel remarked.
'Are they? They won't do in the garden, Christopher says, but they grow nicely out there in the wood. Papa, what is the difference between a weed and a flower?'
'I should think you were old enough to know.'
'I know them by sight – sometimes. But what is the difference?'
'Your eyes tell you, do they not?'
'No, papa. They tell me, sometimes, which is which; but I mean, why isn't a flower a weed? I asked Christopher, but he couldn't tell me.'
'I do not understand the question. It seems to me you are talking nonsense.'
The colonel raised his book again, and Esther took the hint, and went back to the table with her flowers. She sat down and looked at them. Fair they were, and fresh, and pure; and they bore spring's messages, to all that could hear the message. If Esther could, it was in a half-unconscious way, that somehow awakened by degrees almost as much pain as pleasure. Or else, it was simply that the glow and stir of her walk was fading away, and allowing the old wonted train of thought to come in again. The bright expression passed from her face; the features settled into a melancholy dulness, most unfit for a child and painful to see; there was a droop of the corners of the mouth, and a lax fall of the eyelids, and a settled gloom in the face, that covered it and changed it like a mask. The very features seemed to grow heavy, in the utter heaviness of the spirit.
She sat so for a while, musing, no longer busy with such pleasant things as flowers and weeds; then roused herself. The weariness of inaction was becoming intolerable. She went to a corner of the room, where a large mahogany box was half-concealed beneath a table covered with a cloth; with a good deal of effort she lugged the box forth. It was locked, and she went to the sofa.
'Papa, may I look at the casts?'
'Yes.'
