There were roses of all kinds that have ever gladdened poor gardens and simple hearts--yellow tea roses, moss roses with their firm, shapely buds, monthly roses that bore nearly all the year in a warm spot, the white briar that is dear to north country people, besides standards in their glory, with full round purple blossom.

Among the roses, compassing them about and jostling one another, some later, some earlier in bloom, most of them together in the glad summer days, one could find to his hand wall-flowers and primroses, sweet-william and dusty-miller, daisies red and white, forget-me-nots and pansies, pinks and carnations, marigolds and phloxes of many varieties.

The confusion of colours was preposterous, and showed an utter want of aesthetic sense.

In fact, one may confess that the Lodge garden was only one degree removed from the vulgarity and prodigality of nature.

There was no taste, no reserve, no harmony about that garden.