ed them too, and she said the double
ones were only fit for a cottage garden. I laughed so much that I tore
the canary-coloured string as I was gumming it on to the bonnet, to
think how I could tell her now that cowslips are Queen's flowers, the
common ones as well as the Hose-in-Hose.

Then I looked out the Honeysuckle, it was page 404, and there were no
pictures. I began at the beginning of the chapter; this was it, and it
was as funnily spelt as the preface, but I could read it.

"Chap. cv. _Periclymemum_. Honeysuckles.

"The Honisucle that groweth wilde in euery hedge, although it be very
sweete, yet doe I not bring it into my garden, but let it rest in his
owne place, to serue their senses that trauell by it, or haue no
garden."

I had got so far when James came in. He said--"Letters, miss."

It was the second post, and there was a letter for me, and a book
parcel; both from Mother.

Mother's letters are always delightful; and, like things she says,
they often seem to come in answer to something you have been thinking
about, and which you would never imagine she could know, unless she
was a witch. This was _the knowing bit_ in that letter:--"_Your dear
father's note this morning did me more good than bottles of tonic. It
is due to you, my trust-worthy little daughter, to tell you of the bit
that pleased me most. He says_--'_The children seem to me to be
behaving unusually well, and I must say, I believe the credit belongs
to Mary. She seems to have a genius for keeping them amused, which
luckily means keeping them out of mischief_.' _Now, good Little
Mother, I wonder how you yourself are being entertained? I hope the
others are not presuming on your unselfishness? Anyhow, I send you a
book for your own amusement when they leave you a bit of peace and
quiet. I have long been fond of it in French, and I have found an
English translation with nice little pictures, and send it to you. I
know you will enjoy it, because you are so fond of flowers_."

Oh, how glad I was that I had let Adela be the Weeding Woman with a
good grace, and could open my book parcel with a clear conscience!

I put the old book away and buried myself in the new one.

I never had a nicer. It was called _A Tour Round my Garden_, and some
of the little stories in it--like the Tulip Rebecca, and the
Discomfited Florists--were very amusing indeed; and some were sad and
pretty, like the Yellow Roses; and there were delicious bits, like the
E