coat, like a young country bumpkin, who feels
himself a decent lad in his way--or a plant of wild marjoram, that had
somehow got in, and kept meekly in a corner of the bed, trying to turn
into a respectable cultivated herb. Dear old garden!--such as one
rarely sees now-a-days!--I would give the finest modern pleasure-ground
for the like of thee!

This was what John's garden became; its every inch and every flower
still live in more memories than mine, and will for a generation yet;
but I am speaking of it when it was young, like its gardeners. These
were Mrs. Halifax and her husband, Jem and Jenny. The master could not
do much; he had long, long hours in his business; but I used to watch
Ursula, morning after morning, superintending her domain, with her
faithful attendant Jem--Jem adored his "missis." Or else, when it was
hot noon, I used to lie in their cool parlour, and listen to her voice
and step about the house, teaching Jenny, or learning from her--for the
young gentlewoman had much to learn, and was not ashamed of it either.
She laughed at her own mistakes, and tried again; she never was idle or
dull for a minute. She did a great deal in the house herself. Often
she would sit chatting with me, having on her lap a coarse brown pan,
shelling peas, slicing beans, picking gooseberries; her fingers--Miss
March's fair fingers--looking fairer for the contrast with their
unaccustomed work. Or else, in the summer evenings, she would be at
the window sewing--always sewing--but so placed that with one glance
she could see down the street where John was coming. Far, far off she
always saw him; and at the sight her whole face would change and
brighten, like a meadow when the sun comes out. Then she ran to open
the door, and I could hear his low "my darling!" and a long, long
pause, in the hall.

They were very, very happy in those early days--those quiet days of
poverty; when they visited nobody, and nobody visited them; when their
whole world was bounded by the dark old house and the garden, with its
four high walls.

One July night, I remember, John and I were walking up and down the
paths by star-light. It was very hot weather, inclining one to stay
without doors half the night. Ursula had been with us a good while,
strolling about on her husband's arm; then he had sent her in to rest,
and we two remained out together.

How soft they were, those faint, misty, summer stars! what a
mysterious, perfumy haze the