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“
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
.
”
