COMMUTER'S WIFE 299 



August is one of the few growing months when 

 the female gardener may, without neglecting her 

 posies, if she chooses, attire herself becomingly, sit 

 on the porch in idleness, and read a novel. 



To be sure, work is still to be done, but the 

 weeding and tying to stakes is not so violently 

 necessary as heretofore. The building of the cold 

 pit, a sort of small, sunken greenhouse, in the bank 

 south of the barn, is being conducted by Bertie 

 with a carpenter to help him, though of course the 

 cuttings that are to be kept in it must soon be set 

 in sand to root. 



I was thus lounging and reading a novel, not 

 a new one, for, thank Heaven, my hardy perennials 

 in this line have not given out, but " Christian's 

 Mistake," one from my Tauchnitz family that live 

 together in one bookcase, wearing a cheerful uni- 

 form of half red morocco, when father drove up, 

 and, without first going to consult his office pad, 

 seated himself opposite me with a perturbed look 

 upon his face. 



I smiled encouragingly, and was instantly pre- 

 pared to supply any need, from flowers through 

 fruit and soup to baby linen, the last "loan bas- 

 ket" of which, after having been nicely laundered, 

 was enjoying an unusual rest. 



