"
"Mary," said Arthur, from the corner where he was sitting with the
Book of Paradise in his lap, "what have you put a mark in the place
about honeysuckle for?"
"Oh, only because I was just reading there when James brought the
letters."
"John Parkinson can't have been quite so nice a man as Alphonse Karr,"
said Adela; "not so unselfish. He took care of the Queen's Gardens,
but he didn't think of making the lanes and hedges nice for poor
wayfarers."
I was in the rocking-chair, and I rocked harder to shake up something
that was coming into my head. Then I remembered.
"Yes, Adela, he did--a little. He wouldn't root up the honeysuckle out
of the hedges (and I suppose he wouldn't let his root-gatherers grub
it up, either); he didn't put it in the Queen's Gardens, but left it
wild outside--"
"To serve their senses that travel by it, or have no garden,"
interrupted Arthur, reading from the book, "and, oh, Mary! that
reminds me--_travel--travellers._ I've got a name for your part just
coming into my head. But it dodges out again like a wire-worm through
a three-pronged fork. _Travel--traveller--travellers_--what's the
common name for the--oh, dear! the what's his name that scrambles
about in the hedges. A flower--you know?"
"Deadly Nightshade?" said Harry.
"Deadly fiddlestick!--"
"Bryony?" I suggested.
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