No; the two elderly men glanced at each other; there was nothing of the domineering or resentful attitude that so often renders difficult the relation of master and man—­“I must be getting old and forgetful,” quoth father, stepping into the gig.

“Nae, it’s mair like I’m growin’ deef in the nigh ear,” said Tim, and without further argument they drove away.

I was still pondering upon the real inwardness of the matter, when the boys came home to luncheon.  Two hungry, happy boys are a tonic at any time, and for a time I buttered bread—­though alack, the real necessity for so doing has long since passed—­when, on explaining father’s absence from the meal, Ian said abruptly, “Jinks! grandpa’s gone the day before! he told Tim Tuesday at ’leven, I heard him!”

But, as it chanced, it was a slip of tongue, not memory, and I blessed Timothy Saunders for his Scotch forbearance, which Evan insists upon calling prudence.

My own time of trial came in the early afternoon.  During the more than ten years that I have been a gardener on my own account, I have naturally tried many experiments and have gradually come to the conclusion that it is a mistake to grow too many species of flowers,—­better to have more of a kind and thus avoid spinkiness.  The pink family in general is one of those that has stood the test, and this year a cousin of Evan’s sent me over a quantity of Margaret carnation seed from prize stock, together with that of some exhibition single Dahlias.

Late in February I sowed the seed in two of the most protected hotbeds, muffled them in mats and old carpets every night, almost turned myself into a patent ventilator in order to give the carnations enough air during that critical teething period of pinks, when the first grasslike leaves emerge from the oval seed leaves and the little plants are apt to weaken at the ground level, damp off, and disappear, thinned them out with the greatest care, and had (day before yesterday) full five hundred lusty little plants, ready to go out into the deeply dug cool bed and there wax strong according to the need of pinks before summer heat gains the upper hand.

The Dahlias had also thriven, but then they are less particular, and if they live well will put up with more snubs than will a carnation.

Weather and Bertel being propitious, I prepared to plant out my pets, though of course they must be sheltered of nights for another half month.  As I was about to remove one of the props that held the sash aloft, to let in air to the Dahlias, and still constitute it a windbreak, I heard a violent whistling in our grass road north of the barn that divides the home acres from the upper pastures and Martha’s chicken farm.  At first I thought but little of it, as many people use it as a short cut from the back road from the Bluffs down to the village.  Soon a shout came from the same direction, and going toward the wall, I saw Mr. Vandeveer struggling along, his great St. Bernard Jupiter, prize winner in a recent show and but lately released from winter confinement, bounding around and over him to such an extent that the spruce New Yorker, who had the reputation of always being on dress parade from the moment that he left bed until he returned to it in hand-embroidered pink silk pajamas, was not only covered with abundant April mud, but could hardly keep his footing.