342 THE GARDEN, YOU, AND I 



perfection rather than rarity. Single violets in frames, 

 lilies-of-the-valley for Easter and spring weddings, 

 sweet peas, in separate colours, peonies, Iris, Gladioli, 

 asters, and Dahlias: three acres in all. Upon these 

 was her hope built, for with a market waiting, what 

 lay between her and success but work? 



Yes, work and the farm. Then came the vision 

 of human companionship, such as her cousin Bartram 

 and Mary Penrose shared. Could flowers and a home 

 make up for it? After all, what is home? 



Her thoughts tangled and snapped abruptly, but 

 of one thing she was sure. She could no longer endure 

 teaching singing to assorted tone-deaf children, many 

 of whom could no more keep on the key than a cow 

 on the tight rope ; and when she found a talented child 

 and gave it appreciative attention, she was oftentimes 

 officially accused of favouritism by some disgruntled 

 parent with a political pull, for that was what contact 

 with the public schools of a large city had taught her 

 to expect. 



A log snapped she looked at the clock. It was 

 exactly nine ! Going to the window, she pulled back 

 the curtain ; the old moon, that has a fashion of work- 

 ing northward at this time, was rising from a location 

 wholly new to her. 



