“I have already ordered more, Mary Magdalen.”

“An’ you know ouah flouah, Miss Sophy?”

“I—­”

“Us ain’t got a Gawd’s speck!”

Then she would beam upon the visitors, all of whom were known to her.

“Howdy, Miss Sally!  How you-all comin’ on?  Ah comin’ ’round to see de baby soon ’s Ah gits chanst.”  Or, “Lawsy me, Miss Jinny, dat boy o’ yo’s is jes’ natchelly bustin’ outer da clo’es wid growin’, ain’t he?  He jes’ de spit o’ he pa, bless ’im!”

Which untoward confidence didn’t seem to surprise our visitors.  They had Mary Magdalens of their own.

A few days later Doctor Geddes sent us Schmetz, the gardener, a gnarled little man with a peppery temper, a torrential flow of Alsatian French, and a tireless energy.  I don’t know why nor how Schmetz had come to Hyndsville, except that somehow he had acquired a small farm near by and couldn’t get away from it.  He explained to us, gently but firmly, that if we wouldn’t meddle after the manner of women, but would leave his job in his own hands, it would be better for us, and for the garden.  We meekly acquiescing, he called in helpers and with a wave of his hand set hoe and ax and spade to work.

The weather had changed into days of deep blue skies, splendid days full of the warmth of potential power; and nights filled with fragrance, nights of fierce beauty, and the glamour of golden moons, and the thrilling melody of that feathered Israfel, the mocking-bird.  Through our open windows immense moths, spirits of the summer nights, drifted in on enameled and jeweled wings and circled in a fire-worshiping dance around our light.

Those were wonderful days.  For that was a house of surprises, a house full of laid-by things.  One never knew what one was going to find.  One morning it might be a Ridgway jug all delicate vine leaves and faun heads, or an old blue-and-white English platter, or a piece of fine salt-glaze.  On the top shelf of a long-locked closet, pushed back in the corner, you’d discover a full set of the most beautiful sapphire glassware, and a pagoda work-box with ivory corners; and on a lower shelf, wrapped in half a moth-eaten shawl, two glowing luster jugs in proof condition.  Mary Magdalen salvaged a fine china sillabub stand, with little white-and-gold covered cups on it, from a sooty box under a kitchen cupboard.  A back drawer of the dusty office desk yielded up half a dozen exquisite prints.  And I’m sure Alicia will remember even in heaven the ecstasy she experienced when a battered bureau gave into her hands the adorable Bow figures of Kitty Clive and Woodward the actor, she pink-and-white, petticoated and furbelowed, lovely as when London went mad over her, and he cocked-hatted and ruffled and dandified; and neither with so much as the least littlest chip to mar their perfection.