human pleasures," said Lord Bacon, and Miss Vilda would have agreed with
him. Her garden was not simply the purest of all her pleasures, it was
her only one; and the love that other people gave to family, friends, or
kindred she lavished on her posies.

It was a dear, old-fashioned, odorous garden, where Dame Nature had
never been forced but only assisted to do her duty. Miss Vilda sowed her
seeds in the springtime wherever there chanced to be room, and they came
up and flourished and went to seed just as they liked, those being the
only duties required of them. Two splendid groups of fringed "pinies,"
the pride of Miss Avilda's heart, grew just inside the gate, and hard
by the handsomest dahlias in the village, quilled beauties like carved
rosettes of gold and coral and ivory. There was plenty of feathery
"sparrowgrass," so handy to fill the black and yawning chasms of summer
fireplaces and furnish green for "boquets." There was a stray peach or
greengage tree here and there, and if a plain, well-meaning carrot
chanced to lift its leaves among the poppies, why, they were all the
children of the same mother, and Miss Vilda was not the woman to root
out the invader and fling it into the ditch. There was a bed of yellow
tomatoes, where, in the season, a hundred tiny golden balls hung among
the green leaves; and just beside them, in friendly equality, a tangle
of pink sweet-williams, fragrant phlox, delicate bride's-tears,
canterbury bells blue as the June sky, none-so-pretties, gay cockscombs,
and flaunting marigolds, which would insist on coming up all together,
summer after summer, regardless of color harmonies. Last, but not least,
there was a patch of sweet peas,

"on tiptoe for a flight,
With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white."