“Yes,” said Sam, as he stood an hour later in the middle of the plot under the south window, which spread out in the sun like a great black lake, smooth from his repeated plowing and harrowing, “that is the richest bit of land at The Briers or in Benton County.  It will bring some posies for you, Bettykin.”

“I’m not going to plant just flowers in it, Sam,” I answered in a tone that admitted of no discussion, “Do you remember the part of grandmother’s book that told what she made off of the southern half-acre of hers the year everything failed?  I’ve got it right here, and I’m going to follow it,” and as I spoke I hugged the ancestral garden to my breast with one arm, while I held the old grass basket I had made for Sam in my infancy in the other hand, with all my town seeds in it.

“Oh, there’s plenty of garden-land all over the place, Betty.  Come on and sow the posies.”

“There’s not plenty of onion and beet and lettuce and okra and tomato and celery land right at the well, Sam, that Byrd and I can carry water from,” I answered, positively.  “Is this land mine or yours?”

“Yours.”

“Wait.  I forgot!” I exclaimed in sudden, embarrassed consternation.  “Are you renting this land to me, Sam?”

“Renting it to you, Betty?” For a second Sam’s eyes blazed in a way I hadn’t seen since the time I didn’t want to take all of the one fish we caught after a hot day’s fishing out at Little Harpeth at our tenth and fourteenth years.  Then, suddenly, a queer expression came up and drowned the anger in his eyes and twitched at the comers of his mouth until I recognized it as humor.

“I believe it would be better for us both to crop it on shares, as you are going to put in foodstuffs, too.  I am cropping on onions with old Charlie Wade, down the road, and with sugar-beets with Hen Bates.  In this case it would be about fair for you to furnish the seeds and I the land, all labor that each of us puts in to be charged against the gross receipts.  I’ll just enter you in my time-book now.  Let’s see—­it is one-fifteen,” and as he spoke Sam took out, first his watch, and then a muddy little book that had time-tables and all sorts of almanac things in it.

For a second I was as mad as I was when he handed me the two-inch fish and ordered me to take it in for the cook to have for my supper; but in a second I saw just what he had done to me and I didn’t dare remonstrate.

“How much do I get an hour?” I asked, with the greatest dignity, as I threw the seed-basket and my hat on the ground and picked up my rusty old hoe, ready for business.

“I charge myself at twelve and a half cents.  Are you worth about—­about fifteen?” he asked in a business-like tone of voice, but I saw a twitch at the corners of his mouth that made me boil with rage.

“Put me down at six and a quarter for the present,” I answered, haughtily.

“Down she goes,” he answered, as he thus minimized me with his pencil and put the book back in his pocket.  “Now, where do you want me to heave in the lilacs so as to get the two corners of the garden to guide the rows by?  Shall they run north and south or east and west?  It really doesn’t make much difference.”