to
that gentleman's hand, for Ann Straggalls reached the gate, pushed it
wide open, and knowing from experience what a splendid gate it was, she
passed through, and stopped to watch it as it swung back past the post,
with the latch giving a loud click, and away ever so far in the other
direction; then back again with another click; away again with another,
and then to and fro, quicker and quicker, click--click--click--click--
clack, when the latch caught in its proper notch, and Ann Straggalls
smiled with satisfaction, and wished that she had such a gate for her
own.

The clicking of the gate took the attention of Mr William Forth Burge,
who was busy amongst his standard rose-trees, with a quill-pen and a
saucer, using the former to brush off the abundant aphides from the buds
into the latter. He smiled with satisfaction as he released from its
insect burden some favourite rose, whose name was hanging from it upon a
label like that used for the old-fashioned medicine bottles--"one
tablespoonful every four hours"--but, all the same, it was undoubtedly
unpleasant for the aphides that were being slaughtered by the thousand.

Miss Burge had her work and a garden-seat, and she was looking up from
time to time, and smiling her satisfaction at seeing her brother so
happy, for of late he had been dull and overclouded, and did not take to
his dinners and his cigars so heartily as of old.

She too looked up as the gate clicked, and together the brother and
sister watched the coming girl, who had not seen them yet, but was
staring, open-mouthed, at the various flowers. First she made a pause
before one, and her fingers twitched with the intense desire she felt to
pick it; then before another which she bent down to smell, and so on and
on slowly, fighting hard and successfully against temptation, till she
came to a rose in full bloom, before which she came to a complete
standstill.

"Oh, you beauty!" she cried aloud as she bent down and began sniffing
with all her might. "Oh, don't I wish Feelier Potts was here!"

But Feelier Potts was not there, fortunately for Mr William Forth
Burge's _Gloire de Bordeaux_, for that young lady would have felt no
more scruple in ravaging the bush than in picking the buttercups and
daisies of the fields; so at last Ann Straggalls turned with a sigh of
regret, to find herself face to face, with the owner of the garden, who
was smiling at her blandly.

"Plee, sir, I've brought a letter, sir