“But it’s all different!” The girl, small and slight, with lint-white hair curling on her neck, ran to the Abbey wall and stood gazing, astounded. Where she remembered a green meadow, surrounding the beautiful old gate-house, there now lay a sea of flowers. By the gate-house itself stood tall white lilies and bushes of red and yellow roses; the gravel drive leading to the Abbey had borders of pansies and bushes of sweet-briar; against the grey walls were banks of blue and mauve delphiniums and rose and lemon lupins; a path winding among the flower-beds was edged with lobelia and marigolds, with bushes of lavender among them. “It’s wonderful! But how have they done it?” the fair girl marvelled. “You’re sure you like it?” Almost at her feet, on the other side of the low wall, a girl rose from her knees behind a big clump of yellow loosestrife. She had been weeding and her trug was full of grass and willow-herb. “Oh! I didn’t see you,” cried the visitor, and eyed her in delight, for the gardener wore corduroy shorts and a green shirt, and her hair was covered with a green scarf. “No, but I heard you,” she retorted. “You’ve evidently been here before.” “Yes—oh yes! I stayed at the Hall for some months four years ago, and I slept in the Abbey for a few nights, in the little room that opens off the cloisters. I’m Benedicta Bennett.”