comfortable, as houses are that have been lived in for years and had all that houses need gradually added, a little at a time—not crammed down their throats in one heavy, dusty meal, by a universal provider or a hire-system firm.
The garden was full of flowers—daffodils, tulips, wallflowers, forget-me-nots, pansies, oxlips, primroses—and on the walls of the house cherry-coloured Japanese quince. The buds of iris and peonies were already fat with promise, and roses were in leaf and tiny bud.
Twice a day a long procession of workmen passed the house, on their way to and from the new estate that was being (developed). The girls got quite used to the admiration which their garden excited in these men. As they passed every eye was turned to it. One day Jane was cutting the pyrus japonica for the house when the procession began.
"You might spare us a buttonhole," said a fat, jolly man with a carpenter's bag.
"All right," said Jane handsomely, and handed him a little sprig of red blossom.
"Thank you, I'm sure," said the workman.
"But what about me?" said the man behind him.
"Me, too," said another. "Give us a bit too, lady."
"I'm awful fond of flowers."
And next moment there was a crowd of men and boys holding on to the green railings of Hope Cottage, and all clamouring for just one flower. The group blocked the pathway, and newcomers stopped to see what was going on, and the crowd grew and grew,
Jane came to the fence and raised her voice. She had learned to do that in the school plays,
"Look here," she said, "I'm awfully sorry, but I can't give flowers to all of you."
"Never mind, miss," said one, "we know your heart's good."
"No need to give," said a black-bearded, serious-looking man. "I'll pay for mine."
"So'll I," said a dozen voices.
