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 . 12, 1861.] Frederick and Lady Fanny suited one another capitally, and became great friends. Rochford was no longer mischievous enough to satisfy his fair cousin’s requirements. But Miss Lutterworth and he often formed the quieter element in a very happy quartet. Time slipped away, and another fortnight was nearly gone. he must return to town. The day before his departure, however, he said: “I am a hard-working man, Miss Lutterworth, and now I go but little into society. I am, therefore, going to say what, perhaps, it would be more proper for me to defer, until our acquaintance was of longer standing. I have little to offer you save my love, but I think you will believe me when I tell you that is yours. I hope that a career lies before me, which will some day give me a name a woman may be proud to bear. Will you share my struggle-or if the laurels are ever worn, may I hope to be permitted to lay them at your feet?”

“Since I have been at Oldforest,” replied Helen, “I have known two gentlemen who bear the name of Rochford. One moody, silent, abstracted, indifferent to those around him, sometimes almost rude; the other—the other—” but here she detected something like a glance of triumph in Rochford’s eye. “Well, the other is a little better, though he might be improved.”

“By a wife who would take him in hand,” suggested Rochford.

“Seriously,” she continued, “I should like to know which Mr. Rochford addresses me to-day?—which Mr. Rochford would be found at home?”

Then Rochford told the story with which our readers are already acquainted.

“Well,” said Helen, “if I could believe that you would show the same anxiety for your wife that you have done for your friend, I might be induced to say yes. At any rate,” she continued, giving him her hand, “I must have your solemn assurance that you are .”

2em

a many-acred, well-timbered country gentleman leaves his ancestral home in Blankshire for his annual fortnight in London, during the month of May, he is rather pleased than otherwise with the metropolis. He thinks the park and Kensington Gardens beautiful, the trees and the flowers worthy of Blankshire itself, and so on. But let a letter from his family lawyers—Messrs. Kaisay and Fyfay, of Grabbem’s Inn—summon him to town on urgent private affairs, towards the beginning of November. As the good squire grumbles forth his disgust at the aspect of London, tell him that within a stone’s throw of those filthy streets, under that murky, foggy atmosphere, and on the borders of that pestiferous stream, which he would sooner die than venture on, there is to be seen the finest collection of one of the most beautiful flowers in cultivation, growing and thriving, like the gods and goddesses in “the Groves of Blarney,” “all standing naked in the open air,” and, at the end of October, simultaneously flowering into millions of most lovely blossoms of all sorts, in lively welcome of their lords, the lawyers, to their dens in the Temple—what will he think of the sanity of his informant? It is odd news enough for a country gentleman to be told that in a London climate such delicate plants as the calceolaria, the scarlet geranium, and the clove carnation live and flourish; that on the walls of a certain parsonage in Tothill Fields is as large and healthy a fig-tree as is to be found in most parts of England, as also a noble vine, of which its reverend owner receives none of the abundant fruit only because like Ovid’s walnut-tree, it grows by the wayside, and juvenile depredators steal the tempting bunches before they are ripe; and that some of the choicest and best cultivated plants are to be seen outside humble window sills, in Spitalfields and Bethnal Green;—but a flower-show—and such a flower-show—in November, down Fleet Street way—preposterous!

About the time when these pages find their way into Blankshire, our young Prince, after opening the library of the Temple, and being duly elected a Bencher of one or both of its Inns, will pay a visit to the famous gardens, which by the talent and perseverance of two intelligent horticulturists have been, within a very few years, made the pride of the Inns, the paradise of little children, and the delight of the weary clerk and the jaded servant of Captain Pen. The annual chrysanthemum show has not, I believe, been held for more than fifteen years, while the pompone, which is the favourite flower, is of very recent introduction into this country.

The chrysanthemum () or golden flower, is of the order compositæ in the natural system, and in that of Linnæus comes under the head of Syngenesia superflua. It has only been common since the beginning of this century, but it was introduced from China in the year 17(3-t. Neglected for a time about the first quarter of this century, it has again become very popular of late years. It will grow in almost any soil, but to be cultivated with success, a compost of three parts sound loam and one part well rotted dung should be prepared for its reception. For specimen-flowers liquid manure (a spadeful of horse droppings or half a spadeful of sheep droppings to four gallons of water) should be occasionally used. In the earlier days of the flower’s popularity, it used to be planted in composts of goose-dung, sugar-baker’s scum, decayed willow shavings, and goose blood, but that is never done now, I am informed. Planting commences about the last week in March. In April and May the plant likes a south aspect best, but, in the summer months, should be kept a good deal shaded. When eight or ten inches high the young plants are pegged down to prevent too tall growth, and when at a height of one foot or one foot six inches may be tied to slender sticks. During the month of August the plants are watered copiously with liquid manure until the buds are as large as Spanish nuts, when only pure water should be given them. From about the middle of October they are covered over at night, the frosts retarding the swelling of the buds and the free expansion of the flowers, and when the flowers are quite open they should be covered during the day also, as is now to be seen in the Temple Gardens.