time yesterday, but if you are fond of a garden come with us now, your mother and I are going there."

"Oh! thank you ma'am," said Lucy; "but I must call Harry, and we will follow you directly."

They followed, and a gay garden it was, full of a variety of bright-coloured flowers, rich beds of carnations, and roses in full blow.

"Roses, moss roses in full blow in September!" cried Lucy. The day before she had left home, she had searched their garden for a rose for her mother, but could find only one poor solitary bud, which had a yellow nightcap on. She asked Mrs. Frankland to tell her how she contrived to make her roses blow so late in autumn.

By pulling off some of the buds in spring," said Mrs. Frankland," as soon as they begin to form; and by transplanting some of the rose trees, early in the spring, so as to prevent them from

flowering at that time, then they blow in

autumn.'

وو

Lucy said, she would try this next spring on her own two rose trees.

"Not on both, will you?" said Harry. "Let us pull the buds off one, and leave them on the other, then it will be a fair experiment."

"And besides, you may then have a chance," said Mrs. Frankland, "of the first rose of spring, as well as the last rose of summer."

Lucy took notice of some large clusters of bright blue flowers-agapanthas, and varieties of dahlias: she thought them beautiful, but she supposed that these could not be had without a great deal of trouble and money, and a hot-house, or a gardener at least. But Mrs. Frankland said these did not require a hot-house, or even a gardener's skill. "Indeed," said she, "all the flowers in this garden, excepting perhaps perhaps certain carnations, which my gardener prizes highly, though

I do not, may be had by any body with a little care and exertion of their own."

"By any body!" repeated Lucy. "But, ma'am, do you mean bodies like us? like Harry and me? with only our own hands?"

"Yes, bodies like you," said Mrs. Frankland, "with your own hands, provided you use your heads as well as your hands."

"In what way must we use our heads?” said Lucy; "will it be very difficult?”

"No, consult your gardener's dictionary, and follow its directions. Only remember to do so at the right time of year," said Mrs. Frankland. She told Lucy, that she would give her the root of an agapantha, and of some dahlias, and that she and Harry were welcome to seeds, roots, cuttings, or slippings, of any thing they liked in this garden. "Write down what you wish, and I will have them ready by the time your mother brings you here again, as I hope she will on your return homewards."

Joy sparkled in their eyes, and they thanked Mrs. Frankland, with warm gratitude; but, an instant afterwards, they looked unusually grave; for the embarrassment of riches came upon them. They were left to make out their list; and how to choose was the difficulty, where all were beautiful, and when their little garden could not hold all. Harry went to work prudently. He measured out a space of ground, that was the size of their own garden. Lucy could hardly believe that it was so small as what he now showed her; but he had often stepped the boundaries, and was sure of the size of their territories. Rule and measure soon settled the affair, and brought their wishes into proper compass. They calculated what their garden would hold, and made out their list accordingly. Their chief wish was to have a great bed of pinks and carnations.

But the moment they went near these, an old gardener, who was at work in the

garden, and who had long been eyeing them, approached. He began to praise his carnations, which he said were the finest in the county, and he pointed out his favourites. There was the Prince Regent, and the Duke of Wellington, in full glory, these every body knew; but beyond these, he had two superlative new favourites. One he called, The pride of Holland, or the great Van Tromp. The other, The envy of the world, or the great panjandrum. Harry and Lucy did not much admire either of these. Van Tromp they thought was of a dull colour, and the great panjandrum had burst, and was falling to pieces in spite of his card support. Harry preferred some others.

"That which you are now at, master, said the gardener, "is Davy's Duchess' of Devonshire: that little duchess was thought a great deal of some years ago, but she is quite out of fashion now."

Harry did not care for that, he liked her. "What does he say?" asked the deaf