hings as I can get in without crowding. I may change my mind about the
others, but I shall have those three. What are you going to have?"

"Violets and mignonette, nothing more. I love the sweet, modest ones the
best."

"Cucumbers, tomatoes, corn, melons, peas, asparagus," put in Lynn, "and
what else?"

"Nothing else, my son," answered Margaret, "unless you rent a vacant
acre or two. The seeds are small, but the plants have been known to
spread."

"I'll have one plant of each kind, then, for I must assuredly have
variety. It's said to be 'the spice of life' and that's what we're all
looking for. Besides, judging from the various scornful remarks which
have been thought, if not actually made, the rest of you don't care for
vegetables. Anyhow, you sha'n't have any--except Aunt Peace."

"Over here now, please, Lynn," said Miss Field. "When you get that done,
I'll tell you what to do next. Come, Margaret, it's a little chilly
here, and I don't want you to take cold."

For a few moments there was quiet in the garden. A flock of pigeons
hovered about Iris, taking grain from her outstretched hand, and cooing
soft murmurs of content. The white dove was perched upon her shoulder,
not at all disturbed by her various excursions to the source of supply.
Lynn worked steadily, seemingly unconscious of the girl's scrutiny.

Finally, she spoke. "I don't want any of your old vegetables," she said.

"How fortunate!"

"You may not have any at all--I don't believe the seeds will come up."

"Perhaps not--it's quite in the nature of things."

The pouter pigeon, brave in his iridescent waistcoat, perched upon her
other shoulder, and Lynn straightened himself to look at her. From the
first evening she had puzzled him.

Her face was nearly always pale, but to-day she had a pretty colour in
her cheeks and her deep, violet eyes were aglow with innocent mischief.
There was a dewy sweetness about her red lips, and Lynn noted that the
sheen on the pigeon's breast was like the gleam from her blue-black
hair, where the sun shone upon it. She had a great mass of it, which she
wore coiled on top of her small, well-shaped head. It was perfectly
smooth, its riotous waves kept well in check, except at the blue-veined
temples, where little ringlets clustered, unrebuked.

"You should be practising," said Iris, irrelevantly.

"So should you."

"I don't need to."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not going to play with you any more."

"Why, Iris