and where nothing would blossom but lilies of the valley?

("Capricious things those lilies are! So obdurate under coaxing when
transplanted to some place they do not like, so immovably flourishing
in a home that suits them!)

"What I did was to make the best of my fate. After trying to reduce
the lilies of the valley to one neat group, and to cultivate gayer
flowers in the rest of the bed, and after signally failing in both
attempts, I begged a bit of spare ground in the big garden for my
roses and carnations, and gave up my share of the Russian plat to the
luxuriant lilies.

"It had belonged to the eldest boy. One of those born in Russia, and
with the outlandish names of which the charwoman spoke. His name was
Ivan. Many a time did I wish it had been William or Matthew, and once,
I remember, I dreamt a tantalizing dream of discovering that it was
Oliver, and of digging up the middle of the O, and effecting a round
bed of unrivalled brilliancy, with a white rose for the centre-piece
and crown. Once in the year, however, I had my revenge. In spring my
lilies of the valley were the finest to be seen. We had a custom that
all through the flower season a bouquet was laid by my mother's plate
before she came down to breakfast, and very proud we were when they
came from our own gardens. There were no horticultural wonders in
these nosegays, but in my short season of triumph, the size and
fragrance of my flowers never failed to excite admiration; and many
grown-up people besides my mother were grateful for bouquets from my
narrow bed. Credit in the matter I deserved none, for Ivan's lilies
took care of themselves.