April 12.

He was impatient to be at the real work of gardening and one morning applied seriously to Mrs. Crittenden to be set at work.  Surely this must be late enough, even in this “suburb of the North Pole,” as Vincent called Vermont.  Well, yes, Mrs. Crittenden conceded to him, stopping her rapid manipulation of an oiled mop on the floor of her living-room, if he was in such a hurry, he could start getting the ground ready for the sweet peas.  It wouldn’t do any harm to plant them now, though it might not do any good either; and he mustn’t be surprised to find occasional chunks of earth still frozen.  She would be over in a little while to show him about it.  Let him get his pick-mattock, spade, and rake ready, up by the corner of his stone wall.

* * * * *

He was waiting there, ten minutes later, the new implements (bought at Mrs. Crittenden’s direction days and days ago) leaning against the wall.  The sun was strong and sweet on his bared white head, the cool earth alive under his feet, freed from the tension of frost which had held it like stone when he had first trod his garden.  He leaned against the stone wall, laid a century ago by who knew what other gardener, and looked down respectfully at the strip of ground along the stones.  There it lay, blank and brown, shabby with the litter of broken, sodden stems of last year’s weeds, and unsightly with half-rotten lumps of manure.  And that would feed and nourish . . .

For an instant there stood there before his flower-loving eyes the joyful tangle of fresh green vines, the pearly many-colored flesh of the petals, their cunning, involved symmetry of form—­all sprung from a handful of wrinkled yellow seeds and that ugly mixture of powdered stone and rotten decay.

It was a wonderful business, he thought.

Mrs. Crittenden emerged from her house now, in a short skirt, rough heavy shoes, and old flannel shirt.  She looked, he thought, ever so trig and energetic and nice; but suddenly aware that Vincent was gazing idly out of an upper window at them, he guessed that the other man would not admire the costume.  Vincent was so terribly particular about how ladies dressed, he thought to himself, as he moved forward, mattock in hand.

“I’m ashamed to show you how dumb I am about the use of these tools,” he told her, laughing shamefacedly.  “I don’t suppose you’ll believe me, but honestly I never had a pick-mattock in my hand till I went down to the store to buy one.  I might as well go the whole hog and confess I’d never even heard of one till you told me to get it.  Is this the way you use it?” He jabbed ineffectually at the earth with the mattock, using a short tight blow with a half-arm movement.  The tool jarred itself half an inch into the ground and was almost twisted out of his hand.