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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
look
gray
and
brown
and
dry
,
how
can
you
tell
whether
they
are
dead
or
alive
?
”
inquired
Mary
.
“
Wait
till
th
’
spring
gets
at
’
em
—
wait
till
th
’
sun
shines
on
th
’
rain
and
th
’
rain
falls
on
th
’
sunshine
an
’
then
tha
’
ll
find
out
.
”
“
How
—
how
?
”
cried
Mary
,
forgetting
to
be
careful
.
“
Look
along
th
’
twigs
an
’
branches
an
’
if
tha
’
see
a
bit
of
a
brown
lump
swelling
here
an
’
there
,
watch
it
after
th
’
warm
rain
an
’
see
what
happens
.
”
He
stopped
suddenly
and
looked
curiously
at
her
eager
face
.
“
Why
does
tha
’
care
so
much
about
roses
an
’
such
,
all
of
a
sudden
?
”
he
demanded
.
Mistress
Mary
felt
her
face
grow
red
.
She
was
almost
afraid
to
answer
.
“
I
—
I
want
to
play
that
—
that
I
have
a
garden
of
my
own
,
”
she
stammered
.
“
I
—
there
is
nothing
for
me
to
do
.
I
have
nothing
—
and
no
one
.
”
