was children—or robins. I’ve seen her bend over an’ kiss ’em.” He dragged out another weed and scowled at it. “That were as much as ten year’ ago.”
“Where is she now?” asked Mary, much interested.
“Heaven,” he answered, and drove his spade deep into the soil, “’cording to what parson says.”
“What happened to the roses?” Mary asked again, more interested than ever.
“They was left to themselves.”
Mary was becoming quite excited.
“Did they quite die? Do roses quite die when they are left to themselves?” she ventured.
“Well, I’d got to like ’em—an’ I liked her—an’ she liked ’em,” Ben Weatherstaff admitted reluctantly. “Once or twice a year I’d go an’ work at ’em a bit—prune ’em an’ dig about th’ roots. They run wild, but they was in rich soil so some of ’em lived.”
“When they have no leaves and look gray and brown and dry, how can you tell whether they are dead or alive?” inquired Mary.
“Wait till th’ spring gets at ’em—wait till th’ sun shines on th’ rain and th’ rain falls on th’ sun shine an’ then tha’ll find out.”
“How—how?” cried Mary, forgetting to be careful.
