Portia was, in all respects, above most things in the world, most fond of her rose garden. It was the greatest of her earthly possessions. Each morning, no matter the weather, rain or shine, she would be found there, just in front of White Cottage in the Cotswolds of England, tending her roses. Every sort of rose grew there. Reds and oranges. Pinks and mauves. Some oranges with red hearts. Some yellows with  orange centers. And some of them white, which almost glowed in the twilight. She could often be seen   working amongst the soil and the prickly vines, with a cup of hot blackberry  tea set on the porch step. And her hands would be deep in the cottonlined pockets of her gardener’s gloves. She took the greatest of  care, always. At no time did she rush through pruning or watering  or planting or removing the little unwanted bugs from the leaves… No, in all of these processes, Portia  took her time. And, as a result, her rose garden was the most splendid and beautiful rose garden in the entire county of Summerset. White Cottage faced the southwest corner, toward hill country, at the very edge of the village. As a result of this promising position, Portia was able to easily observe the passerby, the townsfolk, the occasional newcomer… And in turn, the townsfolk and occasional newcomer were able to observe her at work in her garden and comment amongst themselves, just what a lovely garden it was. And just down the stone cobbles, amongst a variety of other cottages and residences, were a few principal buildings. The small village store. The bakery. The villagers could often smell warm chocolate souffés and crispy doughnuts in the early morning hours, if the wind was right. The little bank, if it could be called a bank. It was so very small and kept only one banker, Mr. Truffes, and one vault keeper, Mr. Pound. And it was a very small vault at that. The post was run by Mrs. Ivory. But Portia seldom went to the post. For there was never anything there for her to pick up. The church was at the very end of the cobbles. And there was a small  inn about halfway down the street between White Cottage and the church. The Church of St. Dominic, to be exact. Episcopalian of course. Most everyone in the village was Episcopalian. And if they weren’t truly Episcopalian, they at least practiced being so in public.