dragged out another weed and scowled at it. That were as much as ten
year ago.
Where is she now? asked Mary, much interested.
Heaven, he answered, and drove his spade deep into the soil,
cording to what parson says.
What happened to the roses? Mary asked again, more interested than
ever.
They was left to themselves.
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.
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