“Never better.  Out-door life is going to make her a Hebe,” replied the driver of the car, under his breath, though he kept his eyes dutifully on the roadway until the car came to a standstill and he had stopped his engine.

“Come and see the garden, and listen to my plans,” commanded Sally, the moment her friends were on the ground.  “No, I don’t mean Jarvis.  I know he has more important business—­in the orchard, or the barns, or the woods, or the south lot—­”

“Meadow, please,” corrected Jarvis, with a smile which suggested past efforts to teach Sally the nomenclature of the farm.

“—­or anywhere that he can walk to in the mud, and come back covered with stick-tights, with a tear in his coat.  He looks happiest when his clothes are most demoralized and his boots thickest with clay.”

“The sign of your true farmer,” urged Jarvis.

But Sally had no further attention to bestow on him, and immediately led Josephine away over the damp and spongy sod to that portion of the ground at the rear of the house which showed, by a few lingering signs, that it once had been a proud and stately old-time garden.

“You see the old box border is still in pretty good condition, only winter-killed—­is that the word?—­in a few places.  I shall try to fill those in, for I care more for the box than for anything I could have.  See how it outlines all those funny little curving paths, where I suppose roses and larkspur and bleeding hearts and sweet-williams used to grow.  They’re going to grow again, if I can make them.”

“Lovely!  I can see it now.  And phlox—­Sally, you must have masses of phlox—­and candy-tuft, and mignonette, and sweet alyssum—­”

“And love-in-a-mist, and forget-me-nots, and sweet peas, and hollyhocks.  Only the hollyhocks are not going to be in the garden, but in a long row back there, to screen away the kitchen garden from the lawn.  Only—­oh, dear, you have to wait so long for the things you want most!  Hollyhocks don’t bloom the first year from seed—­and I want to see them there this first summer, pink and white and red and yellow in the sun, like a row of children dressed for a party.”

“Can’t you get plants somewhere?”

“Perhaps, from the neighbours—­only country people don’t go in much for the old-fashioned flowers now.  They have rubber-plants and hydrangeas—­in tubs—­just think—­in tubs!  And geraniums in tomato cans!”

“Sally!  Not all of them.  They have nasturtiums—.”

“Yes, and pink sweet peas beside them, to set one’s teeth on edge.  By the way, my sweet peas are in!” Her voice proclaimed triumph, and she led the way down one of the damp, moss-grown paths to a sunny spot where a long strip of freshly raked earth showed that somebody had lately been at work.  “Bob dug it up for me, Uncle Timmy fertilized it, I raked it and planted the seeds, while the whole family stood around and gave advice.  Max wanted them sowed thinner and Alec thicker.  I consulted the seed catalogue and the directions on the paper packet, and then sowed them just as my judgment directed.”