I put them into a slim glass on my table, and looked stupidly at them, and then out of the window at Mary's Meadow.
So they had lived--and grown--and settled there--and were now in bloom.

_My_ plants.
Next morning I was sitting, drawing, in the school-room window, when I saw the Old Squire coming up the drive.

There is no mistaking him when you can see him at all.

He is a big, handsome old man, with white whiskers, and a white hat, and white gaiters, and he generally wears a light coat, and a flower in his button-hole.

The flower he wore this morning looked like--, but I was angry with myself for thinking of it, and went on drawing again, as well as I could, for I could not help wondering why he was coming to our house.