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morning, the 3d of June, I went out to pick the first dish of strawberries for my breakfast. As I was stooping down I heard a timid, playful voice at the window like the echo of a year ago: “Are you the gardener?”

Since Georgiana will not marry me, if she would only let me alone!

“Old man, are you the gardener?”

“Yes, I’m the gardener. I know what you are.”

“How much do you ask for your strawberries?”

“They come high. Nothing of mine is to be as cheap hereafter as it has been.”

“I am so glad—for your sake. I should