It was only a rough wicker-basket which she had filled with damp plushy moss, and half-buried in it clusters of plumy fern, delicate brown and ashen lichens, masses of forest-leaves all shaded green with a few crimson tints.

It had a clear woody smell, like far-off myrrh.

The Doctor laughed as Holmes took it up.
"An artist's gift, if it is from a mulatto," he said.

"A born colourist." The men were not at ease,--for some reason; they seized on every trifle to keep off the subject which had brought them together.
"That girl's artist-sense is pure, and her religion, down under the perversion and ignorance of her brain.

Curious, eh ?" "Look at the top of her head, when you see her," said Holmes.