“How would the place do for the new hen-house?” pursued Maria, relentlessly.

“Not at all!” I snapped very decidedly:  “it is directly in the path the cool summer winds take on their way to the dining room, and you know at best fowl houses are not bushes of lemon balm!”

“Then why not locate your bed of good-smelling things in the gap, and sup on nectar and distilled perfume,” said The Man from Everywhere, soothingly.

“The very thing! and I will write Mrs. Evan at once for a list of the plants in her ‘bed of sweet odours,’ as she calls it.”  Then presently, as the men sat talking, Maria having gone into the house, our summer work seemed to lie accomplished and complete before me, even as you once saw your garden of dreams before its making,—­the knoll restored to its wildness, ending not too abruptly at the garden in some loose rock; the bed of sweet odours filling the gap between it and the gate of the little pasture in the rear; straight beds of hardy plants bordering the vegetable squares; the two seed beds topping the furthest bit, then a space of lawn with the straight walk of the old garden running through, to the sundial amid some beds of summer flowers at the orchard end, while the open lawn below the side porch is given up to roses!

I even crossed the fence in imagination, and took in the possibilities of Opal Farm.  If only I could have some one there to talk flowers and other perplexities to, as you have Lavinia Cortright, without going through the front gate!

Two hours must have passed in pleasant chat, for the hall clock, the only one in the front part of the house we had not stopped, was chiming eleven when wheels paused before the house and the latch of the gate that swung both ways gave its double click!

“The hens have come!” I cried in dismay, the dream garden vanishing before an equally imaginary chorus of clucks and crows.

Mr. Hale himself, the stable keeper, appeared at the house corner at the same moment that Bart and The Man reached it.  Consternation sat upon his features, and his voice was fairly husky as he jerked out,—­“They’ve gone,—­clean gone,—­Mr. Penrose, all three crates! and the dust is so kicked up about that depot that you can’t read out no tracks.  Some loafers must hev seen them come and laid to get in ahead o’ you, as hevin’ signed the company ain’t liable!  What! don’t you want to drive down to the sheriff’s?” and Mr. Hale’s lips hung loose with dismay at Bart’s apparent apathy.

“Mr. Hale,” said Bart, in mock heroic tones, “I thank you for your sympathy, but because some troubles fall upon us unawares, it does not follow that we should set bait for others!”

Whereupon Mr. Hale the next day remarked that he didn’t know whether or not Penrose was taking action in the matter, because you could never judge a good lawyer’s meanings by his speech.

However, if the hens escaped, so did we, and the next morning Bart forgot his paper until afternoon, so eager was he to test the depth of soil in the knoll.