8o THE GARDEN OF A 



dearly, but friends never call. They simply flit in, 

 knowing the times and seasons when you are at 

 liberty, or being mistaken and scenting anything 

 out of joint, they pat the dogs, pick up a book to 

 borrow, a flower to smell, and flit out again, as if 

 that alone was the object of their visit, leaving you 

 comfortable and unembarrassed. Or, finding that all 

 is well, they draw off gloves, unpin hat, and stay to 

 luncheon without forcing you through the responsi- 

 bility of asking them, a relief when you are dubi- 

 ous of the meal. Unless people have this tact they 

 can never really be called friends or safely asked 

 to come freely within the sacred home precincts. 



A country doctor's daughter, like a minister's 

 wife, has many curious experiences in this respect, 

 and my time of trial has arrived. 



In truth the two days' gap in my gardening op- 

 erations has been filled to overflowing with callers, 

 well-intentioned folk who would be friends if they 

 but knew how, people of many grades, all kindly 

 eager to welcome me home, and advise and ask 

 questions varied with remarks about Aunt Lot's 

 marriage and queries as to whether I didn't think 

 father had aged during my absence. 



I had intended giving a sort of parish high tea 

 a little later on, bracing myself to answer questions 



