; and suddenly the thought started into
my head, might not my dark friends at Magnolia, so quick to see and
enjoy anything of beauty that came in their way--so fond of bright
colour and grace and elegance--a luxurious race, even in their
downtrodden condition; might not _they_ also feel the sweetness of a
rose, or delight in the petals of a tulip? It was a great idea; it
grew into a full-formed purpose before I was called to follow Aunt
Gary out of the greenhouse. The next day I went there on my own
account. I was sure I knew what I wanted to do; but I studied a long
time the best way of doing it. Roses? I could hardly transport pots
and trees so far; they were too cumbersome. Geraniums were open to the
same objection, besides being a little tender as to the cold. Flower
seeds could not be sown, if the people had them; for no patch of
garden belonged to their stone huts, and they had no time to
cultivate such a patch if they had it. I must give what would call
for no care, to speak of, and make no demands upon overtasked strength
and time. Neither could I afford to take anything of such bulk as
would draw attention or call on questions and comments. I knew, as
well as I know now, what would be thought of any plan of action which
supposed a _love of the beautiful_ in creatures the only earthly use
of whom was to raise rice and cotton; who in fact were not half so
important as the harvests they grew. I knew what unbounded scorn would
visit any attempts of mine to minister to an aesthetic taste in these
creatures; and I was in no mind to call it out upon myself. All the
while I knew better. I knew that Margaret and Stephanie could put on a
turban like no white woman I ever saw. I knew that even Maria could
take the full effect of my dress when I was decked--as I was
sometimes--for a dinner party; and that no fall of lace or knot of
ribbon missed its errand to her eye. I knew that a _picture_ raised
the liveliest interest in all my circle of Sunday hearers; and that
they were quick to understand and keen to take its bearings, far more
than Molly Skelton would have been, more than Logan, our Scotch
gardener at Melbourne, or than my little old friend Hephzibah and her
mother. But the question stood, In what form could I carry beauty to
them out of a florist's shop? I was fain to take the florist into my
partial confidence. It was well that I did. He at once suggested
bulbs. Bulbs! would they require much care? Hardly any; no t