Tha' thinks no one can stand out against thee--that's what
tha' thinks."

The robin spread his wings--Mary could scarcely believe her eyes. He
flew right up to the handle of Ben Weatherstaff's spade and alighted on
the top of it. Then the old man's face wrinkled itself slowly into a new
expression. He stood still as if he were afraid to breathe--as if he
would not have stirred for the world, lest his robin should start away.
He spoke quite in a whisper.

"Well, I'm danged!" he said as softly as if he were saying something
quite different. "Tha' does know how to get at a chap--tha' does! Tha's
fair unearthly, tha's so knowin'."

And he stood without stirring--almost without drawing his breath--until
the robin gave another flirt to his wings and flew away. Then he stood
looking at the handle of the spade as if there might be Magic in it, and
then he began to dig again and said nothing for several minutes.

But because he kept breaking into a slow grin now and then, Mary was not
afraid to talk to him.

"Have you a garden of your own?" she asked.

"No. I'm bachelder an' lodge with Martin at th' gate."

"If you had one," said Mary, "what would you plant?"

"Cabbages an' 'taters an' onions."

"But if you wanted to make a flower garden," persisted Mary, "what would
you plant?"

"Bulbs an' sweet-smellin' things--but mostly roses."

Mary's face lighted up.

"Do you like roses?" she said.

Ben Weatherstaff rooted up a weed and threw it aside before he answered.

"Well, yes, I do. I was learned that by a young lady I was gardener to.
She had a lot in a place she was fond of, an' she loved 'em like they
was children--or robins. I've seen her bend over an' kiss 'em." He
dragged out another weed and scowled at it. "That were as much as ten
year' ago."

"Where is she now?" asked Mary, much interested.

"Heaven," he answered, and drove his spade deep into the soil, "'cording
to what parson says."

"What happened to the roses?" Mary asked again, more interested than
ever.

"They was left to themselves."

Mary was becoming quite excited.

"Did they quite die? Do roses quite die when they are left to
themselves?" she ventured.

"Well, I'd got to like 'em--an' I liked her--an' she liked 'em," Ben
Weatherstaff admitted reluctantly. "Once or twice a year I'd go an' work
at 'em a bit--prune 'em an' dig about th' roots. They run wild, but they
was in rich soil, so some of 'em lived."

"When they have no leaves and