upon observation, and arose from very large abilities on the part of the planter, though directed to so humble a purpose at that moment.

So soon as Amaryllis had recovered breath, she ran down the grass path and stood by the wheelbarrow, but although her shadow fell across the potato row, he would not see her.

“Pa,” she said, not very loud. “Pa,” growing bolder. “Do come⁠—there’s a daffodil out, the very, very first.”

“Oh,” a sound like a growl⁠—“oh,” from the depth of a vast chest heaving out a doubtful note.

“It is such a beautiful colour!”

“Where is your mother?” looking at her askance and still stooping.

“Indoors⁠—at least⁠—I think⁠—no⁠—”

“Haven’t you got no sewing? Can’t you help her? What good be you on?”

“But this is such a lovely daffodil, and the very first⁠—now do come!”

“Flowers bean’t no use on; such trumpery as that; what do’ee want a-messing about arter thaay? You’ll never be no good on; you ain’t never got a apron on.”

“But⁠—just a minute now.”

“Go on in, and be some use on.”

Amaryllis’ lip fell; she turned and walked slowly away along the path, her head drooping forward.

Did ever anyone have a beautiful idea or feeling without being repulsed?

She had not reached the end of the path, however, when the father began to change his attitude; he stood up, dropped his “dibbler,” scraped his foot on his spade, and, grumbling to himself, went after her. She did not see or hear him till he overtook her.

“Please, I’ll go and do the sewing,” she said.

“Where be this yer flower?” gruffly.

“I’ll show you,” taking his ragged arm, and brightening up immediately. “Only think, to open in all this wind, and so cold⁠—isn’t it beautiful? It’s much more beautiful than the flowers that come in the summer.”

“Trumpery rubbish⁠—mean to dig ’em all up⁠—would if I had time,” muttered the father. “Have ’em carted out and drowed away⁠—do for ashes to drow on the fields. Never no good on to nobody, thaay thengs. You can’t eat ’em, can you, like you can potatoes?”

“But it’s lovely. Here it is,” and Amaryllis stepped on the patch tenderly, and lifted up the drooping face of the flower.

“Ah, yes,” said Iden, putting his left hand to his chin, a habit of his when thinking, and suddenly quite altering his pronunciation from that of the country folk and labourers amongst whom he dwelt to the correct accent of education. “Ah, yes; the daffodil was your great-uncle’s favourite flower.”

“Richard?” asked Amaryllis.

“Richard,” repeated Iden. And Amaryllis, noting how handsome her father’s intellectual face looked, wandered in her mind from the flower as he talked, and marvelled how he could be so rough sometimes, and why he talked like the labourers, and wore a ragged coat⁠—he who was so full of wisdom in his other moods, and spoke, and thought, and indeed acted as a perfect gentleman.

“Richard’s favourite flower,” he went on. “He brought the daffodils down from Luckett’s; every one in the garden came from there. He was always reading poetry, and writing, and sketching, and yet he was such a capital man of business; no one could understand that. He built the mill, and saved heaps of money; he bought back the old place at Luckett’s, which belonged to us before Queen Elizabeth’s days; indeed, he very nearly made up the fortunes Nicholas and the rest of them got rid of. He was, indeed, a man. And now it is all going again⁠—faster than he made it. He used to take you on his knee and say you would walk well, because you had a good ankle.”

Amaryllis blushed and smoothed her dress with her hands, as if that would lengthen the skirt and hide the ankles which Richard, the great-uncle, had admired when she was a child, being a man, but which her feminine acquaintances told her were heavy.

“Here, put on your hat and scarf; how foolish of you to go out in this wind without them!” said Mrs. Iden, coming out. She thrust them into Amaryllis’ unwilling hands, and retired indoors again immediately.

“He was the only one of all the family,” continued her father, “who could make money; all the rest could do nothing but spend it. For ten generations he was the only moneymaker and saver, and yet he was as free and liberal as possible. Very curious, wasn’t it?⁠—only one in ten generations⁠—difficult to understand why none of the others⁠—why⁠—” He paused, thinking.

Amaryllis, too, was silent, thinking⁠—thinking how easily her papa could make money, great heaps of money. She was sure he could if he tried, instead of planting potatoes.

“If only another Richard would rise up like him!” said Iden.

This was a very unreasonable wish, for, having had one genius in the family, and that, too, in the memory of man, they could not expect another. Even vast empires rarely produce more than one great man in all the course of their history. There was but one Caesar in the thousand years of Rome; Greece never had one as a nation, unless we except Themistocles, or unless we accept Alexander, who was a Macedonian; Persia had a Cyrus; there was a Tamerlane somewhere, but few people know anything of the empire he overshadows with his name; France has had two mighty warriors, Charlemagne and Napoleon⁠—unfortunate France! As for ourselves, fortunate islanders! we have never had a great man so immensely great as to overtop the whole, like Charlemagne in his day. Fortunate for us, indeed, that it has been so. But the best example to the point is the case of the immense empire of Russia, which has had one Peter the Great, and one only. Great-uncle Richard was the Peter the Great of his family, whose work had been slowly undone by his successors.

“I wonder whether any of us will ever turn out like Richard,” continued Iden. “No one could deny him long; he had a way of persuading and convincing people, and always got his own will in the end. Wonderful man!” he pondered, returning towards his work.

Suddenly the

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