* * * * *
We heard lots of the weed during the next few days. Each morning at
breakfast it sprouted forth as it were.
"And how is the Great Unknown?" I would ask.
"The Hairy Bittercress is thriving, we thank you," John would answer.
"Hazel Catkin," Margery would throw out.
"Catkin yourself," from John, and so on _ad lib_.
They kept it carefully in a small pot in the window, and if one looked at
it the other watched jealously for foul play.
"On Saturday," said John, "the Curate is coming to tea. He is a man of
wisdom and a botanist to boot--or do I mean withal? On Saturday the Hairy
Bittercress shall be publicly proclaimed by its rightful name."
"Which is Hazel Catkin," said Margery.
Saturday came and Saturday afternoon, and, about three o'clock, the Curate.
I saw him coming and met him at the door.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," I said. "You come to a house of bitterness
and strife. Walk right in."
"Indeed I trust not," he said.
"Come with me," I replied; "I will tell you all about it." And I led him on
tip-toe to a quiet spot.
"Mr. Holmes," I said, "you know the family well. We have always been a
happy loving crowd, have we not?"
"Indeed you have," he said politely.
"Well," I continued, "a weed has split us asunder. My brother-in-law and my
younger sister are on the point of committing mutual murder."
I explained the whole situation and drew a harrowing picture of its effect
on our family life. "Unless you help us," I said, "this Hazel Catkin or
Hairy Bittercress will ruin at least four promising young lives."
"But I hardly see how I am to----" began Mr. Holmes.