“Did they quite die? Do roses quite die when they are left to themselves?” she ventured.

“Well, I’d got to like ’em⁠—an’ I liked her⁠—an’ she liked ’em,” Ben Weatherstaff admitted reluctantly. “Once or twice a year I’d go an’ work at ’em a bit⁠—prune ’em an’ dig about th’ roots. They run wild, but they was in rich soil, so some of ’em lived.”

“When they have no leaves and look gray and brown and dry, how can you tell whether they are dead or alive?” inquired Mary.

“Wait till th’ spring gets at ’em⁠—wait till th’ sun shines on th’ rain an’ th’ rain falls on th’ sunshine an’ then tha’ll find out.”

“How⁠—how?” cried Mary, forgetting to be careful.