THEY were all standing outside the kitchen window in the dinner-hour, the Blue Lady and the Brown Lady, Daddy, Mammy and Tommy. In the doorway, not of the group, but looking longingly towards it, stood Annabel.

“’Tis the tight thick thing in the miggle,” Tommy was explaining volubly. “It’s been an’ broke this mornin’, an’ now ’tis all feathery an’ different.”

“That’s what you’ve been watching for, Tommy; that is the flower of the grass.”

Tommy looked at the Blue Lady in amazement. “Flowers do be blue an’ red,” he objected, “an’ my miggle thing’s green.”

“Tommy,” Annabel still in the doorway spoke in a supplicating voice. “Tommy, let me see the green grass-flower.”

The owner of the garden took not the least notice of her request.

Mammy, Daddy and the ladies had returned to the dinner they had left to see the wonder out-of-doors, so the children were alone.

Annabel drew nearer. “Which is it?” she asked, bending down, her hands on her knees.

“Go away,” said Tommy, kicking a loose stone in her direction. “I shan’t show ee my garden.”

“Tisn’t a garden,” retaliated Annabel. “My mother says it isn’t no garden, it’s just bits of grass.”

Deep down in Tommy’s heart there had sometimes been a suspicion that his garden was not quite as other people’s, but he had resolutely put the thought from him. Now Annabel’s scornful words strengthened his fears. He hit her quite hard, ran into the house and made his way upstairs so quickly that his toes hit the front of each step in his hurry. Into the ladies’ room he burst without the preliminary knock insisted upon by Mammy.

“Is my garden a garden,” he demanded; “or is it just bits o’ grass?”

“Do you love your plants very much, Tommy?”

Tommy’s fingers closed tightly and his lips were compressed as he vigorously nodded his head.

“In that case,” decided Miss Margaret, as she added more cream to the strawberries on her plate, “In that case it is most distinctly a garden.”

“I should like to give ee a bunch....” Tommy paused for a moment. A bunch of what?

He decided that just “a bunch” would do, so he began again.

“I’d like to give ee a bunch out of my garden.”

“Oh, but Tommy, it does seem such a pity to pick ....” Miss Margaret in her turn groped for a word. “The blades,” she concluded satisfactorily.

“But just on’y three blades,” pleaded Tommy.

“Two,” decided Miss Margaret, and together they went downstairs to make the selection.

When the two blades had been most carefully chosen and most tenderly picked, something still troubled the gardener.

“What is it now, Tommy Tregennis?”

“I wish I could take Miss Lavinia a bunch from my garden, I do.”

Miss Margaret hesitated. She did not know Miss Lavinia, and wondered if she was a woman of understanding, or if she would only scorn the gift that meant so much to the little giver.

“Pick just a tiny bunch,” she advised, “I think Miss Lavinia would like that.”

Tommy selected two blades from each of the three plants, but still he paused.

“Will my other grasses have flowers ever?” he asked, confident that the Blue Lady could always tell him everything he wished to know.

She stooped now to examine the others. “Yes,” she told him; “they will be in flower quite soon.”

Happily Tommy knelt once more and plucked his “miggle feather” to add to Miss Lavinia’s bunch, then he ran off to school in such excitement that he quite forgot to call for Ruthie on the way.

Miss Margaret returned to her room, and taking from the shelf the Oxford Book of English Verse, she opened it at Thomas Edward Brown’s poem “A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot.” With a smile she laid the two blades of grass between the pages.

When children took flowers to Miss Lavinia they laid them on her desk unobserved by the rest of the school, if possible. Then when Miss Lavinia came into the room the giver’s heart would beat quickly until she picked up the offering, smelled it, said “How very beautiful,” and looked all around. Then of course the giver smiled a little conscious smile and Miss Lavinia would see this, and say, “Oh, is it from you Ruby, or Jimmy, or David?” as the case might be.

Tommy had never had this delightful experience, but this afternoon he glowed with joy for at last it was to be his. He slipped into the schoolroom when it was empty, placed his “bunch” on the desk, then ran out of the house again, and unconcernedly kicked dust in the gutter.

Here Ruthie joined him and kicked too. “Why didn’t ee fetch me, Tommy?” she asked.

“I’ve put some of my grasses on the desk.”

This seemed to Ruthie quite a sufficient reason. “Oh, Tommy,” she said, “but hasn’t it spoiled your garden?”

“No; leastways, not much; ’n besides, more’ll grow.” Tommy spoke as one who knows. The clock struck two and the children ran in to take their places at the long, narrow table.

Tommy’s conscious smile began as soon as Miss Lavinia appeared in the doorway, and gradually it broadened as she walked to her desk. Then quite suddenly the smile faded and Tommy’s mouth drooped ominously at the corners.

Miss Lavinia had brushed aside the grass and opened her desk without comment!

Large tear-drops began to fall on that part of the table that was Tommy’s place, and Miss Lavinia’s attention was arrested by a strangled sob.

“Why, what’s the matter, Tommy?” she asked, it was so unusual for Tommy to cry.

“You haven’t said his flowers was beautiful,” volunteered Ruthie.

“His flowers?” echoed Miss Lavinia; she was deeply puzzled.

Ruthie ran to the desk and gathered together the six blades and the “miggle feather.”

“They be from Tommy’s very own garden,” Ruthie further explained. “He waters they every night an’ mornin’, Tommy does, outside the kitchen window, and shoos off they cats, so’s they can really grow.”

Some of the older children laughed, but a glance from Miss Lavinia caused their laughter to be instantly suppressed.

Miss Lavinia left the desk and holding in her left hand the six blades and the flower of the grass she went to Tommy’s corner of the table. With her disengaged right arm she drew him to her, and memories of her own far-away childhood gave her understanding, just as Miss Margaret had hoped.

“Tommy,” she said, very gently; “Tommy, thank you very much for your present. It was kind of you to pick these for me from your very own garden, and they are very beautiful.”

“Beautiful!” that was the word Tommy wanted.

“To-day I should like to see them in water on my desk, and to-morrow I shall press them between blotting-paper and mount them on a card; you shall write your name on the card and hang it on the wall.”

While Miss Lavinia spoke Tommy’s tears dried, and when she ended the broad smile was there once more.

When afternoon school was over Tommy ran home very quickly, for hanging over the river was a large, black cloud, and he feared that rain might fall before he could water his plants. He was eager, too, to see whether the other miggle things had grown into flowers in his absence.

His hands were tucked away in his trouser-pockets, but every now and then as he ran one or the other was withdrawn; the arm thus freed from control made wild circles in the air, while in his excitement he blew through tightly closed lips in a vain attempt to whistle.

At the last turning he underwent a sudden metamorphosis, and becoming a ramping lion he plunged madly round the corner in case Mammy should be standing in the doorway. Then the shrill roar broke off abruptly and the waving arms fell limply to his side.

Perfectly still he stood there, while for the second time that day large tear-drops slowly gathered in his eyes and rolled unheeded down his cheeks. Deep sobs followed and Tommy groped his way slowly into the house.

“Oh, Mammy, Mammy,” he moaned; “my garden’s all picked and withered; my garden’s all picked and withered.”

Mrs. Tregennis was not in the kitchen; probably she was in a house near by, but Tommy could not take his sorrow to a crowd. Slowly he made his way to the upstairs sitting room, and there he found Miss Margaret writing letters.

“My Lady,” he sobbed, “my Lady, my garden’s all picked and withered.”

“Oh, Tommy,” she answered softly. Drawing him tenderly to her she dried away the tears as they came.

After a little pause, “Shall I come down with you to see it?” she asked.

Tommy sorrowfully shook his head. “I don’t like to see ’e lyin’ there all dead,” he explained. So Miss Margaret went down alone.

There, scattered among the cobble-stones were the treasured blades of grass. They had been ruthlessly torn from their roots, and lay all curled up and shrivelled in the sun. Of all Tommy’s garden not one green blade remained. Carefully Miss Margaret picked up the limp and faded leaves; none must be left for Tommy to see again lying there all dead. Just as she had taken up the last dead blade, big drops splashed upon the door-step, and the shower that Tommy had outrun came heavily down.

As Miss Margaret was closing the door Mrs. Tregennis ran hurriedly across the alley; over her shoulders as protection from the rain she had thrown a thick woollen antimacassar snatched from the back of Auntie Jessie’s rocking-chair.

On the door-step she rested, panting, flushed and smiling. “Oh, Miss,” she gasped, “what a shower, and Miss Dorothea somewheres along the beach! I must find Tom and send him with a cloak to the caves, may be she’ll be shelterin’ there.”

“Yes,” responded Miss Margaret in a way that plainly showed she scarcely heard what Mrs. Tregennis was saying.

Opening her hand she disclosed the dead grass blades lying there. “It’s Tommy’s garden,” she explained.

Mrs. Tregennis opened the door again, stepped out into the drenching rain, looked down between the stones and understood.

“My poor lamb; where is he, Miss?”

“Upstairs in our room crying.”

“Bless his little heart! I’m afraid Annabel did it, Miss Margaret, and in a way our Tommy did justly deserve it, for he’s been very naughty to she, time an’ again he has.”

“Yes, I know, Mrs. Tregennis, but ...” Miss Margaret hesitated a moment. “You know it’s largely my fault, too, for I haven’t been a bit nice to that child ever once.”

“Oh, Miss!” expostulated Mrs. Tregennis.

“No, you know I haven’t,” and turning Miss Margaret knocked at the door of Mrs. Radford’s sitting-room.

An affected voice bade her “Come in.” Mrs. Radford was reading, while Annabel learned to sew with a hot needle and sticky cotton on a long calico strip.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Radford, languidly, in her best society manner, not rising to receive her visitor. “It is you!”

“Yes, may Annabel come upstairs with me for a little while?”

Annabel looked frightened, and closed her lips in a firm straight line.

Although Mrs. Radford constantly reminded herself that the upstairs visitors were quite common people, yet she felt gratified now, and motioned to Annabel to put her sewing away.

Miss Margaret took hold of Annabel’s hand, and together they went from the room.