have lovely flowers.'

'Winter is a-comin' on, my dears; you won't see my pretty flowers just
yet. They're fast asleep bidin' their time; no frost or cold can touch
'em--bidin' their time!'

Bob's face looked wistful as he gazed at his empty flower beds.

'What's winter?' asked Olive curiously.

'Bless the little dear, has she never known a winter? 'Tis the dreary
dark time of waitin', the sunless, joyless bit o' all the year, when
the singin' birds fly away, the butterflies and flowers die, and the
very trees sigh and moan in their bareness and decay. 'Tis an empty bit
o' life, when all that makes life sweet falls to pieces and fades away.'

This was not quite intelligible to the children; but they shivered a
little at the gloom in the old man's tone, and Olive's blue eyes filled
with tears.

'I don't want to stay here in winter,' she said; 'let's go back to
India, Roly!'

Roland stood with knitted brows considering.

'Who makes the winter?' he asked. 'Does the devil? Because God only
makes beautiful things, doesn't He?'

Old Bob raised his hat, and looked up into the grey autumnal sky with a
smile.

[Illustration]

'Nay, little master, the devil wouldn't have wished to give us such a
lesson as winter teaches us. 'Tis God Almighty in His love that gives us
winter, to try our faith and patience, and teach us hope's lessons. If
we had no winter, we should have no Easter, and 'tis well worth the
waitin' for!'

'And does everything die in winter?' asked Roland in a mournful voice.

His question was unanswered, for Miss Amabel appeared on the scene.

'Oh, you children!' she exclaimed breathlessly. 'What a chase I have had
after you! If I had known you were in such safe quarters, I would have
spared myself the trouble of looking for you. Have they been here long,
Bob?'

'Nigh on a quarter o' an hour, Miss Amabel. They was for going out at
the gate, but I 'ticed 'em in to my place.'

'Much obliged to you. Now, chicks, remember this, you're never to go
outside those gates alone. Come back to the house with me, and say
good-bye to Bob.'

Olive lifted up her little face to be kissed by the old man, and Roland
held out his hand.

'Good-bye, Mr. Bob. We will come and see you again, and you will tell us
about your ugly pots.'

Then as they walked up the avenue by the side of their aunt, Roland said
to her, pointing to the leafless trees above them,--

'We don't have ugly trees like that in India. Why don'