A Bookful Of Girls Part 20

"I might; you said, only the other day, that I sometimes displayed almost human intelligence!"

The professor liked to have his jokes remembered; but still he seemed inclined to temporise.

"I might say that we couldn't afford it. It is generally conceded that Alma Mater is not a munificent provider."

"Yes; and you might say that my great-grandfather was not an East India trader--only you don't tell fibs."

"Or that a sun-dial is an anachronism."

"You are too good a Latin scholar for that."

"So a subterfuge won't do? Very well; then you'll have to put up with a psychological proposition."

"How interesting!"

The professor glanced at the expectant young face turned toward him, and he could not but admit that his estimate of its owner's intelligence had been well within the truth.

"You think a sun-dial would make it the prettiest garden in Dunbridge?"

"I'm sure it would."

"And that is what you are aiming at?"

"Yes."

"Now, I have noticed that when you have got what you are aiming at you lose interest in it."

"O Papa!"

"There was tennis," he went on, marking off the list on a combative forefinger, "and cookery; there was the Polyglot Club, and the Sketching Club, and----"

"But, Papa! They were every one of them good things, and I got a lot out of them; truly, I did."

"No doubt; but as soon as you could play tennis, or sketch a pine tree, or toss an omelette a little better than the other girls, you had squeezed your orange dry."

"But, Papa! I've stuck to gardening for more than two years!" Olivia's tone seemed to give those years the dignity of centuries.

"True; but you haven't got your sun-dial. You will consider that the finis.h.i.+ng touch, and then before we know it you will be wanting to turn the whole thing into a sand-garden for the little micks at the Corners."

"Not such a bad idea," Olivia admitted unguardedly.

"There you are! The mere mention of a new scheme is enough to set you agog!"

But this was not their first fencing match, and Olivia had learned to parry.

"I thought you believed in people being open-minded," she ventured demurely.

"And so I do; but not so open-minded that for every new idea that comes in an old one goes out."

"Oh, the sun-dial hasn't got away yet," she laughed, springing to her feet and going over to the court-end of the garden, where she placed herself in the exact centre of the converging rose-beds.

"There!" she cried; "don't you see how my white gown lights up the whole place? It's just the high light that it needs."

And so it was: a fact of which no one was better aware than the professor. As he, too, rose and sauntered toward the house he could not deny that Olivia's ideas were usually good. The only trouble was that she had too many of them; and here was the kernel of truth that gave substance to his whimsical argument. The beauty of the garden was not lost upon him, nor yet the skill and industry of the young gardener. But more important than either was the advantage to the girl's health. Olivia was sound as a nut; of course she was! There could be no doubt of that. But--so had her mother seemed, until that fatal winter ten years ago. He did not fear for Olivia; why should he?

Only--well, this out-of-door life was a capital thing for anybody. No, he could not have her tire of her garden.

At the foot of the veranda steps Dr. Page paused and glanced again at his daughter. She had left the rose-beds and was already intent upon her work, pulling seeds from the hollyhocks over yonder. She made a pretty picture in her white gown, standing shoulder-high among the brown stalks, her slender fingers deftly gleaning from such as showed no rust. The child was really very persistent about her gardening; she had fairly earned an indulgence. Perhaps, after all, she might be trusted. He moved a few steps toward her.

"Olivia," he said,--and the first word betrayed his relenting,--"Olivia, your sun-dial scheme is not such a bad idea. I should rather like that white-petticoat effect myself. Supposing we say that if between now and next June you don't think of anything you want more, we'll have it."

"Oh, you blessed angel! What could I want more?"

"Time will show," the blessed angel replied, retracing his steps toward the house--unaided by angelic wings!

"Yes," Olivia called confidently. "It's the sun-dial that time will show, and afterward--why, the sun-dial will show the time!"--and although he made no sign, she knew there were little puckers of amused approval about her father's mouth.

As if she could ever want anything more than a sun-dial! she thought, while she pa.s.sed along the borders, harvesting her little crop. She had finished with the hollyhocks, and now she was bending over a bed of withered columbines. And there were the foxglove seeds still clinging. Really, it was almost impossible to keep up. How brilliant the salvia was to-day, and what a brave second blossoming that was of the delphinium, its knightly spurs, metallic blue, gleaming in the sun!

"No," she declared to herself, "there will never be anything so much worth while as the garden. Why, of course there won't; because Nature is the best thing in the world--the very best."

"Plase, ma'am, will ye gimme a bowkay?"

Olivia turned, startled by a voice so near at hand, for she had heard no footfall on the thick turf. There, in the centre of the gra.s.s-grown s.p.a.ce, stood two comical little midgets, their s.m.u.tty yet cherubic faces blooming brightly above garments highly coloured and earthy, too, as the autumn garden-beds.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Please ma'am, will ye gimme a bowkay?"]

"Dear me!" Olivia laughed, "how things do sprout in a garden! Did you come right up out of the ground?"

"Plase, ma'am, a bowkay! Me mudder's sick an' me fader's goned away."

The speaker, a boy of five, stood holding by the hand something in the way of a sister, about two sizes smaller. At Olivia's little joke, which they did not in the least understand, they had both grinned sympathetically, showing rows of diminutive teeth as white and even as snow-berries.

"Bless your little hearts, of course you shall have a bouquet! Come and choose one,"--and taking a hand of each Olivia led them slowly along the brilliant borders.

They were a bit shy at first, but they soon picked up their courage, and Patsy fell to acc.u.mulating a ma.s.s of incongruous blossoms whose colours fought each other tooth and nail. Little Biddy, more modest, as beseemed her inferior rank in the scale of being, fixed her heart upon a single flame-flower which absolutely refused to reconcile itself with the ingenuous pink of her calico frock.

"How long has your mother been ill?" Olivia asked of the boy, who by this time was quite hidden behind a perfect forest of asters and larkspur and lobelia cardinalis.

"Me mudder's always sick. She coughs an' coughs, and den she lays on de bed long whiles."

"And she likes flowers?"

"Yes, ma'am; me an' Biddy picked a bowkay outen a ashba'l oncet, an'

me mudder sticked it in a tumbler an' loved it. Come, Biddy, make de lady a bow!" Upon which the small Chesterfield stood off a few steps and gave an absurd little bob of a bow which Biddy gravely endeavoured to imitate.

"I think I'll go with you," said Olivia, open-minded as ever to a new interest; and hand in hand and chattering amicably, the three moved across the turf and down the long gravel walk to the dusty street.

Surprising how short the distance was between the sweet seclusion of the old tennis-court and the squalid quarter where these little human blossoms grew!