A second spring brought Jack into the dust at her feet, where he
searched most faithfully, and was wandering along the path by which she
had come, when she called him back.

"Never mind," she said. "They'll most likely be dusty by now."

Jack was not used to think the worse of anything for a coating of dust;
but he paused, trying to solve the perpetual problem of his situation,
and find out what the little maid really wanted.

"'Twas only Old Man and marygolds," said she. "They're common enough."

A light illumined Jack's understanding.

"We've Old Man i' plenty. Wait, and I'll get thee a fresh posy." And he
began to reclimb the wall.

But Phoebe drew nearer. She stroked down her frock, and spoke mincingly
but confidentially. "My mother says Daddy Darwin has red bergamot i' his
garden. We've none i' ours. My mother always says there's nothing like
red bergamot to take to church. She says it's a deal more refreshing
than Old Man, and not so common. My mother says she's always meaning to
ask Daddy Darwin to let us have a root to set; but she doesn't often see
him, and when she does she doesn't think on. But she always says there's
nothing like red bergamot, and my Aunt Nancy, she says the same."

"_Red_ is it?" cried Jack. "You wait there, love." And before
Phoebe could say him nay, he .was over the wall and back again with his
arms full.