“Each little seed will be a bulb by and by,” he said, “but not yet.  When we cut the root first, we set it in the ground and these begin to grow and become in time as you see them now.  Afterwards they grow bigger and bigger till their parent can no longer contain them.”

“Does it take long for them to grow full size?” Julia asked.

“It takes five years to grow the finest hyacinth bulbs,” Mijnheer answered, “but inferior ones are more quick.  And when the bulb is grown, there is one bloom—­fine, magnificent, a truss of flowers—­after that it deteriorates, it is, one may say, over.  Ah, but it is magnificent while it is there!  There is no flower like the hyacinth; had I my way, I would grow nothing else, but people will not have them now.  They must have novelties.  ‘Give us narcissus,’ they say; ’they are so graceful’—­I do not see the grace—­’Or iris’—­well, some are fine, I allow, but they do not last in bloom as do hyacinths.  The mourn iris of Persia is very beautiful; we have not one flowering yet, but we shall have by and by.  I will show you then; you will think it very handsome.  When it blooms I go to it in the morning and dust the sand from the petals.  I feel that I can reverence that flower; it is most beautiful.”

“Is it very scarce?” Julia asked.

“Somewhat,” Mijnheer answered; “but we have things that are more so, we have many novelties so called.  Ah, but we have one novelty that is a true one, it is a wonder, it has no price, it is priceless!” He drew a deep breath of almost awed pride.  “It is the greatest rarity that has ever been reared in Holland, a miracle, in fact—­a blue daffodil!”

Julia refrained from mentioning that she had heard of the rarity before; she leaned against the centre stand and listened while the old man grew eloquent, with the eloquence of the connoisseur, not the tradesman, over his treasure.  There was no need for her to say much, only to put a question here and there, or make a sympathetic comment; with little or no effort she learned a good deal about the wonderful bulb.  It seemed that it really had been grown in the Van Heigens’ gardens, and not imported from Asia, as Mr. Cross thought.  There were six roots by this time; not so many as had been hoped and expected, it did not increase well, and was evidently going to be difficult to grow.

“Would you like to know the name which it will immortalise?” the old man asked at last.  “It is called Narcissus Triandrus Azurem Vrouw Van Heigen.”

“You named it in honour of Mevrouw, I suppose?” Julia said.

“I did not; Joost did.”

“Mijnheer Joost?” she repeated.

“Yes,” the father answered.  “It is his, not mine; to him belongs the honour.  It is he who has produced this marvel.  How?  That is a secret; perhaps even I could not tell you if I would; Nature is wonderful in her ways; we can only help her, we cannot create.  Yes, yes, it is Joost who has done this.  He seemed to you a retiring youth?  Yet he is the most envied and most honoured man of our profession.  I would sooner—­there are many men in Holland who would sooner—­have produced this flower than have a thousand pounds.  And he is my son—­you may well believe that I am proud.”