ased to enough for two when I
said with quite a good deal of dignity that, while I had some idea what
boys were, I knew nothing of the other article she mentioned.

"Oh, don't you really know what tolu is? It's a kind of rubber and girls
like to chew it."

"American girls chew! Why, the thing is impossible," I cried, pained to
have an ideal shattered.

"Keep calm, Miss Jenkins, this is a different kind of chew from the one
you are thinking about. It isn't pretty, but it won't hurt them, any
more than a peck of chocolates and, tolu or no tolu, in all the world
there isn't anything dearer than young American girls. They are so
fluffy and bossy and sweet, and they do make the darlingest mamas."

Jane waited for some comment from me. Seeing I had none to make, she
said, "Well, there aren't any boys for Zura to play with, and no tolu
this side of San Francisco." Then, brightening with sudden inspiration,
she exclaimed, "But I tell you what: wait till I take this basket down
to Omoto's home and I'll run right back and make some bear and tiger
cookies and gingerbread Johnnies. Children adore them."

"What is the matter now down at Omoto's house?"

"Oh, nothing much. He's in jail and his wife simply cannot work out in
the field to-day. She has a brand-new pair of the sweetest twins, and a
headache besides."

Even after Jane departed I did some hard thinking how I was to entertain
so youthful a visitor as Zura. Inside our simple home there was nothing
especially beautiful, and my companion had never mentioned that she ever
found me amusing. Outside fore and aft there was a view which brought
rapture to all beholders and peace to many troubled souls. I was not
sure how a wild young maid would thrive on views.

From the moment Zura entered the house and I caught sight of her face as
she looked at my garden through the glassed-in end of the sitting-room,
my fears disappeared like mist before a breeze. A bit of her soul was in
her eyes and, when she asked for a nearer view, I put down my work and
led her through the carved gates into the ancient glory which was not
only the garden of my house, but the garden of my soul. We passed a
moss-grown shrine where a quaint old image looked out across the lake
rimmed with flaming azaleas, and on its waters a family of long-legged
cranes consulted with each other. Our way led over a bridge with a
humped-up back and along a little path for one, then across a bank of
ferns and into the