chair through the doorway of the room, along a stately passage,
and out upon a broad piazza at the back of the mansion. Here were
extensive and carefully tended gardens, and the balmy morning air was
redolent with the odor of flowers.

Jane Merrick sniffed the fragrance with evident enjoyment, and her
sharp grey eyes sparkled as she allowed them to roam over the gorgeous
expanse of colors spread out before her.

"I'll go down, I guess, Phibbs. This may be my last day on earth,
and I'll spend an hour with my flowers before I bid them good-bye
forever."

Phibbs pulled a bell-cord, and a soft faraway jingle was heard. Then
an old man came slowly around the corner of the house. His bare
head was quite bald. He wore a short canvas apron and carried
pruning-shears in one hand. Without a word of greeting to his mistress
or scarce a glance at her half recumbent form, he mounted the steps of
the piazza and assisted Phibbs to lift the chair to the ground.

"How are the roses coming on, James?"

"Poorly, Miss," he answered, and turning his back returned to his work
around the corner. If he was surly, Miss Jane seemed not to mind it.
Her glance even softened a moment as she followed his retreating form.

But now she was revelling amongst the flowers, which she seemed to
love passionately. Phibbs wheeled her slowly along the narrow paths
between the beds, and she stopped frequently to fondle a blossom or
pull away a dead leaf or twig from a bush. The roses were magnificent,