CHAPTER X 79
" Do you like roses?" she said.
Ben Weatherstaff rooted up a weed and threw it aside before he answered.
" Well, yes, I do. I was learned that by a young lady I was gardener to. She had a lot in a place she was fond of, an ' she loved ' em like they was children--or robins. I ' ve seen her bend over an ' kiss ' em." He 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 an ' th ' rain falls on th ' sunshine an ' then tha ' ll find out."
" How--how?" cried Mary, forgetting to be careful.