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Like Andrew, the contradictory old gardener, whose name fitted like a glove, had an affection for the white flower of a girl whose hobby it was!

He had risen early, on the morning after the “fiery note”, had deported sleeping flower families from other beds and wild flowers from their rustic haunts, to build up the new democracy.

But the ruined ash-tree he could not repair. Reduced almost, to a bare trunk, it could no longer roll up the whites of its eyes, when ruffled—show only the pale undersides of its crown of leaves—or it might well have done so, this morning, over a miracle which presently took place with its assistance.

“Hullo—Unie! Unie-Wunie! Well! isn’t the last long farewell to your flower clock said?” cried Pemrose again, dancing down the silvery garden path—her whole warm being simply on the fire-edge of vacation joy. “Oh-h! this is a wonderful day to start for camp. A little ‘chilly-cold’, as Sods would say! But that makes it all the better for hiking. And to-night—to-night we may be sleeping out by the Long Trail! Oh! aren’t you just wild over it, too?”