and climate all right enough—­so it seems to me it’s our chance.  The city gets most of its ‘home-grown’ strawberries from a hundred miles away, which means that they can’t be marketed as fresh as ours can be.  I propose to build up a demand for absolutely fresh berries, picked at dawn and marketed before the dew is off, strictly fine to the bottom of the full-sized basket.  Several grades, but our reputation on the big ones, of course.  There’s no reason why we can’t do it—­”

But he had gone as far as could have been expected without an ironic comment from Max.  “Oh, it’s all clear as daylight!” that young man agreed.  “Even the grubs that infest the soil now will take to the woods when they hear of the onslaught that’s coming.  We’ve only to set out the plants, sit on the fence till the gigantic berries are ripe, than haul in the nets.  No May freezes, no droughts, no—­”

“You are a pessimist, aren’t you?” Jarvis broke in.  “I know of only one thing that will ever work a reformation in you—­and that’s a summer’s work in the open air.”

“Pessimist, am I?  Well—­”

It was Sally who interrupted, this time.  During Jarvis’s explanation of his plan she had been absorbed in the contemplation of a new idea.  She proceeded to launch it against the tide of Max’s retort, and her enthusiastic shriek overbore his deeper-toned growl.  “I’ve a name for this place!” she cried, clapping her hands.  “A name!  I’ve tried and tried to think of one, you know, Jarvis, and nothing has suited.  Uncle Maxwell never named it anything.  Uncle Timothy thinks ‘The Pines’ would be a good name but I’m sure there are hundreds of country places called ‘The Pines.’  Alec says ‘Woodlands,’ and Bob votes for ’Farview’—­though there’s no far view at all till you get up to the hill by the timber lot.  But now—­I have the name!”

She spoke impressively, and they both looked at her, waiting for the revelation about to fall from her lips.  She did not keep them waiting long.

“‘Strawberry Acres.’”

Silence ensued.  Sally looked from one to the other.  Max began to laugh.

“Better call it ‘Prospective Strawberry Acres’” said he.

“It’s certainly an original name,” mused Jarvis.  “Not a high-sounding one, certainly.  But you don’t want a high-sounding name—­for a farm.”

“It’s a nice, colourful name,” argued Sally.

“’Colourful!’—­Now, by all that’s eccentric, what’s a colourful name?” demanded Jarvis, laughing.

“Think of strawberries among the green leaves, in the sun—­Jarvis, let’s have green leaves on all the baskets!—­and think of crushed strawberries, and the beautiful, rich, red juice.  It’s a nice, rich name, just as my Turkey-red curtains make a warm, homey-looking room.”

Jarvis shook his head.  “These are mysteries too deep for my imagination,” he owned.  “But you can call it ‘Pumpkin Hollow,’ if you like—­that’s a colourful name, too, I should judge—­a fine natural yellow.”