Emily these relics of sylvan statuary seemed like old friends: but the air grew very fragrant, and another turn brought her to her own garden. There, at least, she traced her uncle—not one of her favourites had been forgotten; and never had the purple and perfumed growth of the heliotrope—that sanctuary of odour—been so luxuriant, while the bed of the rich crimson clove pink was like one of the spice islands, the very Manilla of the garden.
"You see, Miss Emily," said the gardener, "we did not forget you. Master always would come here; but he has not been round our garden these three weeks. Indeed, miss, he took no pleasure in nothing after you went. Why, Miss Emily, you look almost as bad as he does. Well, they say London is a sad place: nothing will thrive there."
For the first time in his life, the old gardener turned away without waiting for his accustomed gossip with the young mistress, with whom he was very indignant for her sojourn in town,—winter he could have forgiven, but a summer in London!—every successive growth of flowers that passed by with out Emily's seeing and praising them added to the deepness of her offence. A few words of compliment to his
