oly--a jungle?'

'No, I think the trains are. I want to go and see them. Come on!'

They reached the gates, but found them shut, and as Roland was exerting
all his strength to open them, an old man stepped out of the pretty
little lodge close by.

'Why, where be ye off to, little master?' he asked with a beaming smile.
'Isn't your nurse with you this afternoon?'

'No; we're taking a walk. Open the gates, please.'

But this the old man did not seem willing to do.

'Won't ye come into my little parlour here, and pay me a visit? My
niece, Jane, is away to market to-day, and I be very lonely. Old Bob has
a lot of pretty things in his room.'

[Illustration]

Roland hesitated, but when Olive with sparkling eyes ran in at the open
door, he followed, saying,--

'We always like to pay visits, so if you're a good and nice man we'll
come in. Mother only likes us to talk to very nice people; but I s'pose
every one in England is nice, because they're white, and it's only the
blacks that don't know better.'

[Illustration]

The old man laughed, and his quaint, old-fashioned room, with a cheery
fire and bright coloured prints round the walls, delighted his little
guests.

'What are those ugly pots in your window without any flowers?' asked
Roland presently.

Old Bob gave a little sigh and a smile.

'Ah, you've hit upon my greatest treasures,' he said. 'You won't call
them ugly pots when Easter comes.'

'What is Easter?' asked both the children.

'The happiest time in the whole year to me,' said Bob, shaking his
head; 'but another day I'll tell you the tale of those pots--not
to-day.'

'And have you got a garden?' asked Roland eagerly. 'Olive and me love
flowers, but England doesn't seem to have any out of doors.'

'Come and see my garden,' said the old man proudly; 'it's the joy of my
life, next to them there "ugly pots"!'

He led the way to the back of the house, where was a good-sized cottage
garden; but the children's faces fell considerably when they saw the
barren desolation, for Bob had no evergreen shrubs, and only some rows
of cabbages and broccoli showed signs of life.

'It's all brown earth and dead things--no flowers at all!' they
exclaimed.

'But this is the wrong time o' year,' Bob said apologetically; 'there be
heaps o' beautiful stuff all under the earth, awaitin' to come up in
their time.'

'But why don't you make them come up now? What's the good of a garden
without flowers? In India we