Charlotte looked down at them as she ejaculated, "How sweet this room
is!" and the shadow of a frown crossed her face. "I would not do it,
Ducie, for any one," she said. "Poor herbs of grace! What sin have they
committed to be trodden under foot? I would not do it, Ducie: I feel as
if it hurt them."
"Nay, now; flowers grow to be pulled dear, just as lasses grow to be
loved and married."
"Is that what you think, Ducie? Some cherished in the jar; some thrown
under the feet, and bruised to death,--the feet of wrong and sorrow,"--
"Don't you talk that way, Charlotte. It isn't lucky for girls to talk of
wrong and sorrow. Talking of things bespeaks them. There's always _them_
that hear; _them_ that we don't see. And everybody pulls flowers,
dearie."
"I don't. If I pull a rose, I always believe every other rose on that
tree is sad about it. They may be in families, Ducie, who can tell? And
the little roses may be like the little children, and very dear to the
grown roses."
"Why, what fancies! Let us go into the yard, and see the shearing.
You've made me feel as if I'd never like to pull a posy again. You
shouldn't say such things, indeed you shouldn't: you've given me quite a
turn, I'm sure."
As Ducie talked, they went through the back-door into a large yard
walled in from the hillside, and having in it three grand old sycamores.
One of these was at the top of the enclosure, and a circle of green
shadow like a tent was around it.
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