and her hands rolled in her apron:

"Oh, Miss Sophy!"

"Well?" say you, resignedly, with a feigned smile; "what is it, Mary
Magdalen?"

"Miss Sophy, you know we-all's sugah?"

"Yes."

"Wellum, Miss Sophy, 't ain't any."

"I have already ordered more, Mary Magdalen."

"An' you know ouah flouah, Miss Sophy?"

"I--"

"Us ain't got a Gawd's speck!"

Then she would beam upon the visitors, all of whom were known to
her.

"Howdy, Miss Sally! How you-all comin' on? Ah comin' 'round to see
de baby soon 's Ah gits chanst." Or, "Lawsy me, Miss Jinny, dat boy
o' yo's is jes' natchelly bustin' outer da clo'es wid growin', ain't
he? He jes' de spit o' he pa, bless 'im!"

Which untoward confidence didn't seem to surprise our visitors. They
had Mary Magdalens of their own.

A few days later Doctor Geddes sent us Schmetz, the gardener, a
gnarled little man with a peppery temper, a torrential flow of
Alsatian French, and a tireless energy. I don't know why nor how
Schmetz had come to Hyndsville, except that somehow he had acquired
a small farm near by and couldn't get away from it. He explained to
us, gently but firmly, that if we wouldn't meddle after the manner
of women, but would leave his job in his own hands, it would be
better for us, and for the garden. We meekly acquiescing, he called
in helpers and with a wave of his hand set hoe and ax and spade to
work.

The weather had changed into days of deep blue skies, splendid days
full of the warmth of potential power; and nights filled with
fragrance, nights of fierce beauty, and the glamour of golden moons,
and the thrilling melody of that feathered Israfel, the
mocking-bird. Through our open windows immense moths, spirits of the
summer nights, drifted in on enameled and jeweled wings and circled
in a fire-worshiping dance around our light.

Those were wonderful days. For that was a house of surprises, a
house full of laid-by things. One never knew what one was going to
find. One morning it might be a Ridgway jug all delicate vine leaves
and faun heads, or an old blue-and-white English platter, or a piece
of fine salt-glaze. On the top shelf of a long-locked closet, pushed
back in the corner, you'd discover a full set of the most beautiful
sapphire glassware, and a pagoda work-box with ivory corners; and on
a lower shelf, wrapped in half a moth-eaten shawl, two glowing
luster jugs in proof condition. Mary Magdalen salvaged a fine china
sillabub stand, with litt