The next morning William Hender was more than usually silent at breakfast, and he went off to his work without making any reference to what he had seen in the garden over-night. The children's thoughts, though, were full of it. As soon as they were dressed in the morning they ran out to see how everything looked, and how their new treasures had borne the night.
"Bella, I am going to have a bit of garden too," cried Tom, as soon as he saw her. "Father wouldn't mind, I'm sure. He doesn't seem to want it now, and it'll be better for me to have a little bit than to let it all be idle."
Tom had thought of it in the night, and could hardly wait until daylight to begin. And, of course, as soon as Charlie heard of the plan, he must do the same. "So shall I," he cried sturdily. "I shall have a garden, and grow strawberries and gooseberries, and—and all sorts of things. Won't it be fine!"
"Margery wants a garden too. Margery wants to grow fings." Margery was tugging at Bella's skirt, and dancing with eagerness.
"What can Margery do?" asked Bella gently. She was always gentle and kind to her little sister. "Little girls like Margery can't dig up earth."
"Margery'll grow flowers," urged the little one eagerly, "Margery wants to grow flowers, woses and daisies, and pinks, and sweet peas, and—and snowdrops, and—oh, all sorts. Do give Margery a little garden, please, Bella, please. Only just a little tiny, weeny one."
The baby voice was so urgent that Bella could not say 'No'; nor had she any wish to. Anything that pleased Margery pleased her, and would, she knew, please her father. "Come along, then, and choose which bit you will have."
"I want it next to yours."
"Very well. I don't s'pose father will mind."
"Let me dig it over for her the first time," urged Tom, and he left the marking out of his own new bed to come and dig up Margery's.
Charlie and Bella and Margery herself collected large stones to outline it with, and by dinnertime there was a very neat and inviting-looking patch beside Bella's herb-bed.
"What'll you do for flowers to put in it, though?" laughed Charlie.
"Have you got any?"
"I've got the double daisy that Aunt Maggie gave me, and Chrissie Howard is going to bring me a 'sturtium in a pot. She said it was to put on the window-sill, but I shall put it in my garden."
"I can get you a marigold the next time I go past Carter's, on my way to Woodley. Billy Carter offered me one the other day; they're growing like weeds in their garden."
Margery danced with joy. "That'll be three flowers in my garden; I'll be able to pick some soon, won't I?"
That night William Hender came home earlier from his after-supper gossip at the 'Red Lion,' and, as usual, strolled about outside the house while he finished out his pipe. To-night his footsteps led him down his garden, and instinctively he went in search of the herb-bed again. Before he reached it he came upon fresh signs of digging and raking, and a larger patch of newly-turned earth, with the tools still lying beside it.
"This must be for one of the boys," he thought to himself, as he stooped to look closer. He admired the thoroughness of the work, or as much of it as he could see in the moonlight. On his way to the tool-shed with the tools he passed Bella's herb-bed, and then the newly-turned piece beside it caught his eye and brought him to a standstill.
"That must be the little one's," he said to himself, as he looked down at it. "Of course she must have what the others have! I wonder what she's got planted in it?" He bent lower and lower, but in the uncertain light he could not distinguish what the little clump of green was, and at last he had to go down on his knee in the path and light a match.
"One double daisy, bless her heart! It's that daisy root she has set so much store on ever since Maggie Langley gave it to her. Bless her baby heart!" he said once more and very tenderly, and as he rose from the ground again he sighed heavily, and passed his hand across his eyes more than once.
"I'd like to give her a s'prise," he thought to himself. "I'd dearly love to give her a s'prise, and I will too. It'll please her ever so much."
The thought of it pleased him ever so much too, and he went in and went to bed feeling in a happier mood than he had done for a long time. The mood was on him the next morning too, when he came down to breakfast.
"Where are the children?" he asked, as he went to the scullery for his heavy working boots.
"Oh, out in the garden. They are mad about the garden for the time," said Aunt Emma, with a laugh. "Bella seemed troubled 'cause there was nothing in it, so they're going to set matters right. She has planted a few herbs, and Charlie is making a strawberry bed. I don't know how long it'll last, I'm sure. They soon tires of most things."
"Ay, ay, children mostly do," was all that their father answered, but as soon as his boots were fastened he sauntered out into the garden in search of them.
"Breakfast's ready," called his sister after him. "Call the children, will you?"
"I'll go and fetch them," he said, and made his way to where he heard their voices.
When she caught sight of him Margery left the others and ran towards him. "Daddy! daddy! come and look at my garden. Bella says she thinks my daisy has taken root! Now it'll soon have lots of daisies on it, won't it? and I'll give you a piece of root. Wouldn't you like that? Daddy, won't you have a garden too, and have flowers in it?"
"Why, all the garden is father's," cried Charlie, laughing at her, and with one accord they all turned and looked over the garden which was 'all father's,' and the untidiness, the look of neglect stamped upon everything, brought a sense of shame to the father's heart.
"But there aren't any flowers," sighed Margery.
Aunt Emma's voice was heard calling them in to breakfast.
"No, there ain't any now, but there will be," said her father gravely. The words, though to Margery they sounded so simple, were a promise made to himself and to his dead wife to do better in the future than in the past. "By God's help!" he added, under his breath.
That evening, when he came home from work, he made his way at once out into the garden. He had brought home some bundles of young cabbage plants, and was going to make a bed for them.
"It's too late for most things, but I can do something with the ground," he said to himself, as he went to the tool-shed for his fork and shovel.
The children had gone into Woodley on an errand for their aunt, but might be back at any moment now. The four tidy little patches of ground made the rest of the garden look more wretchedly neglected than ever before; they were to him like four reproaches from his four neglected children.
He began to dig with almost feverish haste, in his desire to get some more of the ground in order, and so absorbed did he become in the improvement he soon made, that he forgot about time and tea, and everything else.
A shout at last made him look up. It was a joyful shout from little Margery, who, catching sight of him at once, came flying along the path to him.
"Oh, daddy's got a garden, too!" she cried delightedly. "Daddy is making a garden too! Oh, how nice! What are you going to grow in your garden, daddy? Flowers?"
"Ay, I must try and have a few flowers here and there; but I've got to have cabbages and leeks and potatoes, and all sorts of things in my garden,—things that ain't so pretty as flowers, but are more useful."
Margery stood for a moment looking very soberly at the newly-turned earth, and holding tight a paper bag that she had been carrying very carefully all the time.
Suddenly she held the bag out to him. "I'll give you that for your garden, daddy," she said, eagerly, "then you'll have a flower."
Her father took the bag from her and began to open it. "What is it? What have 'ee got there, little maid?"
"It's a 'get-me-not root. Mr. Carter gave it to me for my garden; but I'll give it to you, daddy, 'cause there isn't anything pretty in your garden."
The man's heart was very full as he looked in on the little root; then, without speaking, he laid it gently down, and taking his little girl very tenderly in his arms he kissed her.
"Daddy'll plant it this very minute, little one;" and to himself he added, "and I'll plant it where I can see it best—in case I should forget again."
A voice came calling down the path to them, "Father, supper's ready. Margery, come in to supper;" but the little forget-me-not had to be planted first, and Margery had to stay and help, of course. When it was firmly placed in the ground in a nice little puddle of water, and the earth pressed tightly about its roots, Margery stood back and gazed at it contentedly.
"I think it looks lovely there, don't you, daddy? and you see I've got my daisy and a marigold in my garden, so I have plenty; and p'raps I'll get something more 'nother day."
That night, after supper was over and the children were in bed, William Hender went softly down the garden again to Margery's very neat but very bare little garden plot, and at the back of it, against the wall, he carefully planted a fine rose bush. He had brought it home with him on purpose for her, and, that the children might not see it, he had hidden it in the hedge in the lane until he had an opportunity of planting it, for he wanted it to be a surprise for the little maiden. All the time he was planting it he was picturing to himself what she would say and do when she first saw it; and he laughed to himself more than once, but very tenderly, as he pictured the surprise on her face.
In the morning he was up and dressed before any of them, and out in the garden at work. He had a glance first at the forget-me-not, and then at Margery's rose bush and daisy. All of which were looking very healthy and happy in their new surroundings. Then he began to dig up a piece of ground not far off, where, while pretending to be paying no heed to them, he could hear all that they said and did.
Then, as the minutes went by, he began to grow impatient for the children to come, but his patience was not tried for long, before the house-door was flung open, and a stampede along the path announced their coming.
"Why, father is up already!" he heard Tom exclaim, "and just see what a lot he's done."
"How nice it looks! Doesn't it make a difference?" said another voice that he guessed was Bella's. "Wait a minute; I've got to let out the fowls, and give them their breakfast. Come along, Margery, if you want to throw it to them."
For once Margery was quite indifferent to the fowls. "Is your 'get-me-not growing, daddy?" she shouted anxiously, as she raced up to him.
"My dear life, yes! I should just think it is. You give it a look as you go by. I think it is wonderful."
"Oh, it is, isn't it? I think it's lovely. I am so glad I gave it to you. Are you glad, daddy?"
"Glad, I should think I am, and no mistake! Never was gladder of anything in my life," said her father heartily.
Margery's face was radiant with joy. "What are you going to plant in your garden now, daddy?"
"Cabbages."
"Oh!" disappointedly, "I don't like cabbages, they haven't pretty flowers, and they haven't a pretty smell."
"Well, we can't have everything pretty, and glad enough we are of cabbages for dinner sometimes. The hens like them better than any flower, don't they?"
"Yes, so they do. I'll be able to give some of the leaves to the fowls, won't I?"
"Yes, if you don't give them too many."
"I must go now and see if my daisy is growing, and the marigold. I'll be back again in a minute," and away she trotted.
The others were sauntering slowly back from the fowl-house, and pausing to look at Charlie's strawberry plants on their way, when suddenly the silence was broken by a succession of squeals and shrieks and frantic calls to each one by name.
"Oh-h-h! oh-h! oh!! Bella! Daddy! Tom! Do come here. Charlie! oh, look, do look! there's a lovely rose bush growed up in my garden through the night, and it's got leaves on it! Oh, how did it come? Daddy, do come and see it. You never saw anything so wonderful."
They all ran, of course. Bella and the boys nearly as excited as Margery, and full of curiosity, their father full of pleasure with the success of his surprise.
"Daddy, do come and look. It is a real one, isn't it?" Clutching him by the hand to hurry him. "It isn't a fairy rose, is it?" anxiously.
"It's a real one right enough, in my opinion," said her father, looking very grave, and stooping down to inspect the little bush. "It's a real one right enough," he assured her solemnly, as he straightened himself again. "Looks healthy too."
"Do you think the fairies put it there for me?" she asked, breathlessly, watching her father closely and trying to read his face. "Or do you think God sended it to me 'cause I've been a good girl?"
"Have you been a good girl?" doubtfully. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, I think so," hesitatingly; "haven't I, Bella?" turning her anxious little face from one to the other.
"Yes," said Bella loyally, "you've been very good."
"That's it, then, I expect it has been sent to your garden because you've been good."
"P'raps God telled the fairies, and they put it there," and her little face grew all bright again at this wonderful explanation.
The beauty and wonder and mystery of it all took up so much of their time and attention that there was no more work done that morning, for when Aunt Emma's call to breakfast came sounding along the path they were still gathered about Margery's little garden, gazing and marvelling at the mysterious rose.
"I must have one look at my herbs before I go in," said Bella to herself as the call to breakfast reached her; "they are not as lovely as Margery's rose, but my herb-bed was the beginning, and—and oh I do hope it is all going to be nicer again, and as happy as it used to be. It really does seem as if there was a difference already."
Bella was right,—there really was a difference already, and, best of all, the difference continued. Never again could any one say that the Henders' garden was neglected and untidy. As of old, William Hender worked there every evening, but now he usually had one or more of his children with him, and the garden in time became a perfect picture.
Bella had another and a larger piece of ground given her, in which to grow flowers, and, as her father often remarked, she must have had the true flower-lover's hand, for she had only to put in roots or seeds or cuttings of any kind, for them to grow and blossom their best, and throughout the spring, summer, and autumn her garden was a picture.
A year passed by, and Charlie's strawberry bed had yielded its first crop, and Tom's vegetables had provided more than one meal for the family, and, of course, had tasted better than any others that were ever grown. Over the wall at the back of Margery's garden the fairy rose had grown rapidly, covering the old stones with clusters of snowy blossoms. The whole of Margery's garden was well stocked by this time, for night after night mysterious plants had been placed there,—planted, as she firmly believed, by the fairies, who had 'been telled by God' to take it to her because she had been good; and that must have been the reason, she felt sure, for whenever she was very good, some new flower always appeared.
Another winter passed over the little household, a happy one, on the whole, in spite of stormy scenes at times with Aunt Emma, sharp words and sharp answers. The boys, as they grew older, found it harder to bear with her short, cold answers, her sharp commands, and constant snubbings of them in almost everything they said and did. Bella, who had never quite recovered from the shock of the scene when her aunt had beaten her so unmercifully, had an anxious time trying to stave off quarrels between them, and soften harsh words and pert answers, which might lead to them.
Bella had never forgotten that dreadful Monday, nor had she ever forgotten the talk with Aunt Maggie after, and the aim she had set before herself to do her best to make the house more comfortable and happy, and more what her mother would have made it had she been alive. She often failed, very often, in fact, and often despaired, but she never quite gave in, or, if she did, it was for a little while only.
There were many hills to climb on the road she had chosen, but there were many pleasant valleys too, and if sometimes her feet faltered and stumbled, and she felt weary and disheartened, and looked at the next hill hopelessly, feeling that she never could mount it, there were also happy hours, and sweet flowers and sunshine to cheer her, and sometimes there was such a feeling of hope and joy over all as made her heart sing and her spirits dance. For the house really was tidier and less neglected, her father came home regularly now, and was with them more, and she herself had something to do, some object in life, some work that she could do herself, and take a pride in.
Thus it was, when the spring came that was to bring such changes to their lives, such steep hills to climb that they wondered sometimes if there was any valley beyond, where they could rest a little, or any sunshine anywhere, so heavy were the shadows.
Bella's flower-beds were a picture that year, and her herb-bed too, with its great sprays of curly parsley, and bushes of mint and thyme, sage and borage. In fact, all the garden was a goodly sight, and no one would have recognised it for the garden of a year ago. There were rows of peas and beans, just coming to perfection, and every other kind of vegetable that space could be found for. The fruit bushes were laden with promise of supplies in store, and already Miss Hender was making jam of the rhubarb, which filled up one corner of the garden with its handsome great leaves.
"It does seem a pity sometimes that I can't do more with all my flowers," said Bella one day. She had carried a glorious bunch of sweet peas and a basket of vegetables to Mrs. Langley. "I give away a good many, but most people have their own, and don't really want any more, and they just grow and flower and fade, and nobody but ourselves see them. Aunt Emma won't let me bring in more than one little bunch at a time, so they just waste, and it does seem a pity when there's a lot, and all so pretty."
Mrs. Langley looked at her lovely nosegay thoughtfully. "Child," she said at last, "why don't you do up some bunches, and carry them into Norton on a market day, or any other day, and try to sell them? Why, I've known my missis, when I was in service, give shillings for flowers no better than you bring me day after day, and not as fresh and strong either, by a long way."
"Sell my—flowers!" The suggestion, coming so suddenly, made Bella gasp. "Oh, but, Aunt Maggie, how could I? I should have to go to people's houses and ask them to buy, shouldn't I? I don't believe I'd ever be able to make up my mind to." Bella looked alarmed at the mere idea, but though alarmed she was also pleased with the daring suggestion, and her cheeks grew rosy red with excitement. Mrs. Langley nodded thoughtfully, but she did not reply at once. With many girls she would not have approved of such a plan, but she thought Bella could be trusted.
"Yes," she said at last, "I think you could be trusted, child, not to grow bold and rude and pushing, even if you had to ask people to buy your flowers. You might, perhaps, be able to arrange with a florist to take all you had every week. Of course, he would want to make a profit, so you wouldn't get so much for them, but you would be saved a good deal of time and trouble, maybe."
"Oh, but, Aunt Maggie, do you think I could? Do you think I should ever sell any?"
Bella was still half bewildered by the suddenness and boldness of the new proposal. There were so many sides to it, too, pleasant and unpleasant. It would be splendid, she thought, to be able to turn her garden to account, and to feel her lovely flowers were not wasted. It would be splendid, too, to be able to put her money each week in her money-box. She had been longing for some time past to be able to buy a glass frame to protect some of her seedlings through the winter,—and who knew but what her flowers would make this possible for her? The thought thrilled her.
On the other hand, she did shrink shyly from the prospect of going up to people and asking them to buy, and also from the thought of what her father and Aunt Emma would say. She mentioned this last thought to Aunt Maggie.
"If you would really like me to," said Mrs. Langley, "I will speak of it to your father before you do, and then, if he falls in with the plan, he can talk to your aunt about it. You see, Bella, child, there is another thing to bear in mind. You are nearly fourteen now, and before very long you'll have to be thinking about earning your living, and you'll have to go to service, or think of some way of earning it at home."
"I've been thinking of that, Aunt Maggie;" and a moment later she added sadly, "and if I went to service I'd have to leave all my flowers."
"Of course you would, dear. It would be a great loss to you, wouldn't it?"
"Oh," sighed Bella, realising for a moment how great a loss it would be, "I don't believe I could ever bear it."
Aunt Maggie smiled sadly. "You could, dear. You will have far harder trials than that to bear, I am afraid, or you will be more than fortunate," and she added after a moment's silence, "We can make our garden wherever we are, and plant our seeds, and raise our flowers."
"Not in service, Aunt Maggie?" cried Bella, incredulously, "they wouldn't give me a bit of ground, would they, anywhere I went?"
Mrs. Langley smiled. "They might in some places where the servant makes it her home, and the mistress tries to make it a real home to her, they let her have a little bit of ground to call her own. But I was thinking, dear, of another kind of garden,—the garden of life, where we can sow good seed or bad, and raise flowers, where we and others have to tread. Flowers of patience and honesty, good-temper, willingness, and cheerfulness. They are very precious flowers to most people, for few get many such along the way they have to tread; and a sunny smile or a cheery word, or a kind act will often lighten the whole of a dull, hard day. Don't ever forget to grow those flowers, my dear, or to shed sunshine wherever God may order you to dwell."
"Does God order that, Aunt Maggie? Does He tell people where they must go? and shall I have to do as He tells me, and go where He sends me?"
"Yes, dear, and you can trust Him. He will only send you where you are needed, and where it is best for you to be."
Bella went home in a very, very thoughtful mood that night. "I wonder where God is going to send me, and what work He has for me to do?" The idea filled her mind until, as she reached home, the thought suddenly rushed into her head, "I wonder what father will say, when he hears what Aunt Maggie wants to talk to him about!"
What her father did say when first the plan was mooted, was a downright "No! I can keep my children as long as I can work, and Bella can find enough to do at home."
"Yes, I know," answered Aunt Maggie gently, when he had repeated this more than once, and each time more emphatically. "And what about the time when you can't work, William? or, if anything was to happen to you? Do you think it is right or fair to bring up children without any knowledge that'll earn them a decent, respectable living?"
William Hender had no answer ready, and sat trying in vain to find one.
"If she were to begin in a small way, such as I'm suggesting, who knows but what, in time, she might work up a little business, and be able to make quite a nice little living out of her flowers and things? She has a wonderful gift for raising them and understanding them, and it does seem a sin not to make use of it. Don't you think so?"
William Hender nodded thoughtfully; this new way of looking at things impressed him. He was proud, too, of Bella's skill with her garden, and his thoughts flew beyond the present to the future, where in his mind's eye he saw a tidy little shop well stocked with fruit and flowers and vegetables, and Bella the prosperous owner of it all, and his heart swelled with pride.
"You are right, Maggie," he said, as he rose to go. "You always are, I think. I'll talk to Emma about it, and I'll look about me the next time I go to Norton, and see if there's any shop there that'll be likely to take her flowers. It might be better for her to sell them that way. Good-night."
Bella's heart beat fast and furious when she heard that her father approved of the scheme, and when the children were told about it they all flew into a state of wild excitement. Of course they all wanted to be market-gardeners at once. "Why can't we all go shares in a stall in Norton Market?" cried Tom. "Bella can sell flowers and herbs, and me vegetables, and Charlie fruit, and Margery——"
"Fairy roses," said Margery eagerly. She always called her flowers that had come so mysteriously 'fairy flowers.'
"I was in Norton Market-house once," went on Tom, "and oh, it's a fine place!"
Norton, their nearest and largest market-town, was five miles off, and as there was no railway to it, and they had no cart to take them, a visit to the town was one of the rarest treats they knew.
When the first excitement had worn off, and Aunt Emma had been talked to and won over, and all that remained to be done was for their father to go to Norton and look out for a florist, matters seemed to go no further. He was at work on every day of the week except Saturday afternoons, and then there was always so much to be done at home he never seemed able to spare the time. Five miles to Norton and five miles back was a long distance to cover, with no other means of covering it than one's own two feet, or a chance 'lift'; and he kept on putting the matter off.
"All my sweet-peas are passing," sighed Bella, when another Saturday had come and gone, and her father had not again spoken of going to Norton. "Tom, I've a good mind to go myself next Saturday, and take some flowers, and try to sell them. Will you come with me? Do you think you could walk so far?"
Tom was indignant at this reflection on his manliness. "Walk it! I should rather think so! I can if you can, anyhow!"
"It's a good long way," said Bella reflectively; "p'raps we could get a lift home. I wonder if Aunt Emma will let us go? Oh, Tom, I wish she would. I shall hate it at first, but it does seem a pity to waste all my flowers, and I do want to earn some money to buy a hotbed and some more seeds; there's ever so many kinds I want to get."
To their great surprise, Aunt Emma agreed quite willingly to the scheme as soon as she was told of it. She saw nothing to object to in it, she said, and it never entered her head to think that the walk might be too long for either of them. "If Saturday turns out wet or rough, you needn't go," she said cheerfully.
"I should have to if I'd got customers waiting," thought Bella; but she did not argue the point; she was thankful to have won the permission she wanted, and too fearful of losing it, to run any risks.
How the four children lived through the excitement of the next few days they scarcely knew. For Charlie and Margery there was disappointment mingled with the excitement,—disappointment that they could not go too; but there was much that was thrilling, even for those who stayed at home, and they were promised that they should walk out along the road to meet the others at about the time they would be expected back.
Tom, on the whole, got the most enjoyment out of it all, because for Bella there was a good deal of nervous dread mingled with the excitement and pleasure.
"I do hope I meet with nice customers," she said to Aunt Maggie the day before, when she went down to ask her to help her re-trim her rather shabby Sunday hat for her. "I hope they don't speak sharp when they say they don't want any flowers."
"You generally find folks speak to you as you speak to them," said Aunt Maggie consolingly. "If you are civil, you will most likely meet with civility from others. Look, I've got a large shallow basket here that I thought would do nicely to hold your flowers and show them off prettily. The cover will help to keep them fresh. You'll have to be up early to gather them, child. And do give them a drink of water before you start. You'll find they'll last fresh twice as long. In fact, I believe it would be even better to gather them the evening before, and let them stand in water all night, then you would only have to arrange them in bunches before you start."
Bella thanked her delightedly, and ran off home with her new basket and her old hat, feeling as proud and pleased as any child in the land.
That night she went to bed early, but scarcely a wink did she sleep, and glad enough she was when the old grandfather's clock in the kitchen at last struck four. She got up then, and very quietly began to dress herself, after which she called Tom. It was early, but not too early, considering all that they had to do. For this once, at any rate, the flowers had to be gathered and arranged in bunches and given a drink. Bella and Tom had to dress themselves in their best, and make themselves look as neat and nice as possible, and walk the five miles and be in Norton in good time, for Aunt Maggie had told them that the ladies of the place would most probably be the best and most pleasant customers, and that as a rule they went out to do their shopping as soon as they could after breakfast.
"You ought to be there by ten at he latest," she had said, and Bella promised not to be later.
On such a beautiful morning, before the sun had grown too hot, walking was pleasant enough, and Bella and Tom, excited and very eager over their new experience, did not feel tired; and if they did wish the distance shorter, it was only that they might be on the scene of action more quickly.
For the first part of the way they had the road mostly to themselves, but as the morning advanced, and as they drew near to Norton, they were constantly being overtaken by carts laden with all sorts of people and things: live fowls in coops, calves, little pigs under nets, or a fat sheep fastened in at the back of a market cart. Many of the market carts had women seated in them, carrying large white baskets full of fowls and ducks, or eggs and butter, all carefully tucked away under snow-white cloths. There were smaller carts, too, full of vegetables and fruit; and one which particularly roused Bella's interest was a florist's cart laden with beautiful ferns and flowers in pots, and, alas! for her own little supply, boxes of cut flowers.
A wave of hot blood swept over her cheeks. Her pretty bunches, so daintily and carefully arranged, seemed to her suddenly to become poor and shabby and worthless beside that handsome show of hothouse geraniums and roses, maidenhair and other ferns, and her step grew slow as her spirits sank. How could she ever go on and face all the people, and show them her poor little store?
Tom looked round at last, to see what the matter was, but he only laughed when Bella told him. "Oh, well," he said cheerfully, "I don't suppose he began with a pony and trap, and who is to say that we shan't be driving one some day! My eye, Bella, wouldn't it be fine to have a little turn-out like that!" and he capered in the road with delight at the thought.
Bella's spirits rose again. "If I had a greenhouse," she said, "I dare say we could grow maidenhair ferns, and roses too. Tom, do you think it would cost a lot of money to build a greenhouse?"
"No," said Tom sturdily; "I believe we could build one ourselves if we'd got the stuff. Bella, I'm going to learn carpentering, you see if I don't, and then I'll be able to make lots of things, hot-beds and greenhouses, and hencoops, and wheelbarrows."
Bella laughed. "We seem to be going to do a lot—some day, but I think we shall be old men and women before that day comes." Tom's enthusiasm was very cheering, though. "There are lots of lovely flowers I can grow without a greenhouse," she said, more contentedly; "just think, Tom, of stocks and carnations and roses, and—and lavender. Oh, Tom, won't we have a load to bring, in time, if we can get people to buy them!"
They had reached the town by this time, and all Tom's attention was taken up by the busy crowds. "We'd better go to High Street first, hadn't we? That's where all the shops are, and the Market-house, and most of the people."
"We'd better uncover our baskets first, and show what we've got to sell, hadn't we? I don't think it's too soon, do you?"
Bella rested hers against the railings of a church they were passing at the moment, and lifting off the cover, and turning back the damp cloth, she carefully raised her pretty bunches, and arranged them to what she thought was the best advantage. Her spirits rose again at the sight of them, for they certainly were very lovely, and so sweet! There were bunches of sweet-peas of all colours, and some of white only, and pink only, and some of every shade of violet, from the deepest to the palest. There were roses too, and 'boy's love,' mignonette, stocks, and pinks.
"Oh, they are sweet!" exclaimed Bella, as she drew in great breaths of their fragrance. "I am sure I should want to buy them if I saw any one else selling them."
"Come on," said Tom impatiently; he could not see that it mattered much how the bunches were arranged.
They strolled slowly on again, Bella feeling very conscious now, and very shy. She was wondering how she must begin. Must she go up to people and stop them, and ask them to buy her flowers?
Tom was so taken up with watching a sheepdog guiding a flock through the busy street, he forgot all about his duties as a salesman.
"Do stand still a minute and watch," he pleaded, and Bella stood.
How long they had stood she never knew, when she was suddenly recalled to the present, and her duty, by a voice saying, "What a perfectly lovely show of flowers! and, oh, the scent!" and looking quickly round, she found two ladies standing beside her gazing at her basket.
"Are they for sale?" asked one of the ladies, looking at Bella with a pleasant smile.
"Oh yes, ma'am, miss, I mean," stammered poor, shy Bella, and, to hide her blushing cheeks, she bent and lifted out some of her flowers that the ladies might see them better.
"How much a bunch are they?"
"Tuppence each the big ones, ma'am, and a penny the little ones," stammered Bella. She longed to give them to the lady, and ask her not to pay any money at all for them. "Some are all shades of one colour, and some are mixed."
"It is wonderful," she heard one lady say softly to the other. "I gave a shilling in London a day or two ago for a much smaller bunch than this."
"Where do you get such beautiful flowers?" she asked, turning again to Bella with her pleasant smile.
"I grow them myself, ma'am," said Bella, with shy pride.
"Do you really? Well, you must be a born gardener, I am sure, and you deserve to get on. Mary,"—turning to her companion again,—"I will have pink sweet-peas of different shades for the dinner-table to-night, and then that point will be settled and off my mind. Nothing could be prettier. Can you,"—to Bella—"give me six bunches of pink ones? At least four of pink, and two of white?"
Bella turned over her store eagerly, and found the number wanted.
"I must have some of your mignonette," said the other lady, "for the sake of the smell, and a bunch of those roses too. How much each are they?"
"Tuppence the roses, and a penny the mignonette, ma'am," said Bella.
"There is my money," said the sweet-pea lady, handing her a shilling.
"And there is my threepence," said the mignonette lady. "Do you come every week with flowers?"
"I am going to try to, ma'am," said Bella. "This is the first time I've been."
"Well, if you will call at my house when you come, I dare say I shall often be glad to have some of your flowers."
Bella's face brightened. She was so glad she would have this kind, friendly lady to go to; it would be splendid, too, to have a regular customer. That was what Aunt Maggie had hoped she would get.
"I live in the house next to the church. Do you remember passing a church at the top of the street, just as you come in to Norton?"
"Oh yes!" Bella and Tom exclaimed together. "We stopped by it to arrange our flowers."
"Well, the house next to it is mine. You won't forget, will you? Mrs. Watson, No. I High Street."
"Oh no, we shan't forget," they both answered her earnestly. "As if we could," said Tom, as he watched their two customers disappearing down the street. "I wish we could meet with some more customers like them."
Half an hour went by without bringing them another of any kind. The fact was, they were so shy they stood back in a quiet corner, where they were hidden by the crowd from any likely customers.
"I'm afraid the flowers will begin to droop, if we don't sell them soon," said Bella at last; and the thought spurred her into going up to a house near by and knocking at the door.
"Please, do you want any flowers?" she asked timidly of the rather grim-looking woman who came to the door.
"No, I don't," snapped the woman crossly. "The idea of bringing me to the door for nothing! Anybody'd think I'd got nothing else to do!" And the door was shut in Bella's face with a bang.
"Doesn't it make a difference how anybody speaks?" said Tom, receiving unconsciously a lesson in good manners and bad that he never forgot to the end of his life. But the woman's bad manners and temper had affected Bella so strongly that her eyes had filled with tears, and the little courage she had had ebbed away.
"I shall know now what it feels like to be spoken to so," she said in a husky voice, as she hastily wiped her eyes.
"Flowers, ma'am? Tuppence and a penny a bunch. Fresh this morning," said Tom brightly.
An old lady was peering closely into his basket, examining the contents.
"Give me three of those that are smelling so sweet."
Tom picked out one of stocks and 'boy's love,' and one of pinks and mignonette, and a bunch of roses.
"Have you got any lavender?"
"No, ma'am."
"I could bring you some in a week or two, ma'am," said Bella promptly, forgetting the snub she had received in the old lady's enjoyment of her flowers. "It isn't quite ready to cut yet."
"Very well, bring me two shillings' worth. I make it up into cushions to sell for Missions. If it is nice, I may order more."
"Thank you, ma'am; I'll cut it fresh the morning I bring it," said Bella delightedly.
"Very well; I live in this house we are standing by," and she pointed to the very one they had just been turned away from.
Bella's face flushed at the mere thought of having to face the bad-tempered servant again, but, as she remarked to Tom afterwards, they were told to call, and they wouldn't have gone unless they had been.
"That makes eighteenpence," said Tom, as Bella slipped the money into her purse, "and an order for two shillings' worth for another week. Ain't we getting on!"
"If we can only sell a few more bunches we'll go and get something to eat," said Bella. "I'm hungry; ain't you?"
"Starving," said Tom, with emphasis. "Let's get into a better place, where the people can see us."
"Flowers, penny a bunch," he called to the people as they passed by, and so many turned and looked, and then stopped, that they had soon sold half a dozen of their big bunches and many of the small ones. Their flowers were certainly very good and very cheap, and Norton people had not had the chance of buying such before. The florist who had passed the children on the road had a stall in the market-place, but he only sold hothouse flowers, and charged very highly for them.
"We have only six bunches left," said Bella joyfully; "we'll go and have something to eat now. Where can we go for it, Tom?"
"There's a stall in the market-house where they sell limpets and cockles, and——"
"Oh, I don't want limpets and cockles! I want a glass of milk and some buns. Don't you?"
"Rather," said Tom; "let's buy some buns at that shop down there, and go somewhere quiet to eat them. I wouldn't like to eat them in the shop, with every one looking, would you?"
"No; but we can't take milk away without something to carry it in."
"Well, we'll drink water. There's sure to be a pump or a drinking-fountain near."
So they went to the shop, and very proud Bella felt as she took out her purse and paid for the four buns the woman put in a bag for her.
"Anything else, missie?"
"No, thank you," said Bella, but rather regretfully, as her eyes fell on the tarts and sausage-rolls, and the bottles of sweets, and on the glasses of milk labelled 'Penny a glass.' A glass each would have cost twopence, and that with the buns would amount to sixpence. "It would be a dreadful lot out of what we've made," thought Bella, and bravely turned away.
The smell of the new buns was very enticing to two hungry little people who had had nothing to eat since their seven o'clock breakfast, and they did not dawdle on their way back to the friendly shelter of the church steps.
"Won't Charlie and Margery be excited to hear all about it?" laughed Bella, as she munched in placid content. "We ought to take something home to them."
"We'll take them one of those peppermint walking-sticks," said Tom, "shall we? They love that. I had one once, and Charlie always wanted one like it. I saw some in the market."
"We'll take them one each. Isn't it lovely to have money, and be able to buy things for people?"
"Rather," agreed Tom heartily. "Bell, I'm going to bring something from my garden next week. I've got French beans and marrows ready to cut."
A lady passed, and looked hard at the children and at the baskets standing beside them.
"Flowers, ma'am?" said ready Tom.
The lady paused. "I must see if I have any change," she said, and stood still while she looked in her hand-bag. "Yes, I've just threepence," and she went away carrying two of their remaining bunches.
For a few minutes longer they sat on, loth to move. "My legs are aching a bit, aren't yours?" asked Bella.
Tom nodded. "I shouldn't be sorry if we were at the other end of the five miles, should you?"
"I wish we were," sighed Bella, "and just meeting Charlie and Margery. I wonder if they've started yet?"
A lady came along pushing an invalid carriage, on which a little girl was lying. She lay perfectly flat, and looked very white and ill. As she passed she looked with wistful, weary eyes at Tom and Bella. Bella had picked up her basket to make room for the carriage to pass.
"Oh, what lovely flowers!" cried the little girl. "Mummy darling, do buy some. Are they for sale?" she added quickly, looking at Bella, a hot blush passing swiftly over her pale face.
"Yes, miss," said Bella, blushing too.
"I am sorry, darling, but I came out without my purse. I haven't a penny with me."
"Oh!" there was deep disappointment in the little invalid's tone.
Bella picked out the nicest bunch she had left. "Will you please to accept one?" she asked, blushing again, but very prettily. "I grew them myself. Will you take one, miss?"
The lady looked pleased, yet embarrassed. "It is very, very kind of you," she said, hesitating, "but I hardly like to. It seems almost like asking for them, and I expect you wanted to sell them?"
"We have sold a lot, nearly all we brought in. Please take them, ma'am;" and the lady, feeling it would give Bella more pleasure to have them accepted as a gift than paid for, did so with many thanks, and the little lady's delight was the richest payment Bella had had that day.
"Oh, thank you, thank you very much!" she cried delightedly, pressing the flowers to her pale face and breathing in the scent. "Do you come here often with flowers?"
"This is the first time," said Bella; "but we want to have some to bring every week. We've sold all we brought but these."
The lady looked in her basket. "If only I had my purse with me I should be glad to have those from you. Do you mind coming back to my house with me? It is not very far."
"No, ma'am, we'll come, but,"—Bella hesitated, wanting to say something, yet hardly knowing how to—"but if you don't want to go back, and—and if you like to take them, we'll trust—I mean, next week will do." It was out at last, amid a great deal of blushing.
The lady smiled. "Well, that is very thoughtful of you, and if you are sure you don't mind trusting me I shall be much obliged to you, for I have to be at my mother's house at one o'clock, and I think it must be that now. Stella, darling, you would like to carry the flowers, wouldn't you? That's it. Then I owe you fourpence for two twopenny bunches. I will not forget. Perhaps I shall see you here at this same place at the same time next week?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good-morning, and thank you."
"Good-morning, ma'am," they both answered; and the little invalid called back gratefully, "Good-bye, and thank you ever so much for my lovely flowers."
"Now," said Tom excitedly, "all we've got to do is to walk home."
"When we've got the children's walking-sticks," corrected Bella, and they both hurried down to the market-house to get them.
"We'll take home some cinnamon rock to Aunt Emma," said Bella; "she likes that better than anything."
At last, with their baskets empty save for their purchases, they proudly and joyfully turned their faces homewards, delighted in every way with their day's experiences.
The walk home certainly did seem rather long, far longer than the walk out, but they were very tired, of course, for they had been on their feet, with scarcely any rest, since four in the morning. The sun was hot too, and the road dusty, and such a number of carriages and carts passed them that the air all the time seemed full of a haze of dust—at least it did until they had got a couple of miles or so away from Norton. After that it grew less bustling and much pleasanter. And then by the last milestone, which was a good mile from May Lane, they found their father and Margery and Charlie waiting for them.
All their tiredness vanished then in a trice, and the last mile was covered and home reached almost before they had begun to tell all they had to say.
It was not much past four o'clock by the time they reached the cottage, but Aunt Emma had finished all her scrubbing and cleaning, and had tidied herself, and got tea all spread ready for them, and she actually came out to meet them, seeming really glad to see them, and when they gave her the cinnamon rock it was plain to see that she was really pleased that they had thought of her.
"Now come in and take off your boots, and put on your old slippers to rest your feet; you must be tired out," she said kindly. They certainly looked very tired, though they were too excited just then to feel so.
"There's apple-tart for tea," whispered Margery, as she followed Bella upstairs. "I saw Aunt Emma making it. It's for you and Tom!"
Bella could hardly believe her ears, but when they sat down to table there was the tart, sure enough; and as they sat there eating and talking over their adventures and drinking their tea and laughing, Bella thought she had never known such a perfectly happy, lovely day in all her life before.
And how splendid it was to hear them all exclaim when Bella took out her purse and counted out on the table the money she had earned that day! "And there's sixpence owing, and four-pence we spent on buns, that would make ten-pence more!" she said proudly.
"You must put it in the Savings Bank towards buying your cold frame," said her father; "and it won't be so very long either before you'll have enough to get it with, if you do as well every week as you have to-day. You can't always expect, though, to have such a lot of flowers as you've got just now."
"I think I shall take some bunches of herbs in with me next time," said Bella. "Don't you think they'd sell, father?"
"I should think most people grow their own," said her father; "still, you can but try. The weight of them won't hurt you, even if you have to bring them back again."
"Bella, if I've got some flowers next Saturday, will you take in a bunch and sell them for me?" asked Margery excitedly. "Then I'll have a penny to put in the bank too."
"Oh, yours are fairy flowers," teased Charlie; "they would die on the way, or turn into something else."
Margery was not going to be teased. "P'raps they'd turn into fairies," she said, nodding her head wisely at her brother; "then they'd turn all Bella's pennies into golden sov'rins, and make a little horse and carriage to drive her home in."
"I'll find you some sandwiches or cake or something to take with you next week," said Aunt Emma; "it's a pity you should spend your money on buns and things. It'll be better for you, and cheaper, to take your own with you."
Tom and Bella could scarcely believe their ears, but they felt very pleased, and thanked her very gratefully.