im. He felt sure that they were coming for a story, for
when the elder lady came to the garden it was not her habit to bring
her daughter with her; and neither of them was likely, on ordinary
occasions, to walk along in a straightforward way, loitering neither
here nor there. Their manner and their pace denoted a purpose.

John Gayther had never dug into a garden-bed as earnestly and anxiously
as he now dug into his mind. These ladies were coming for a story. The
younger one had doubtless told her mother that there had been stories
told in the garden, and now another one was wanted, and it was more than
likely that he was expected to tell it. But he did not feel at all easy
about telling a story to the Mistress of the House. He knew her so well,
and the habits of her mind, that he was fully assured if his fancies
should blossom too luxuriantly she would ruthlessly pull them up and
throw them on the path. Still he believed she would like fancies, and
highly colored ones; but he must be very careful about them. They must
be harmonious; they must not interfere with each other; they might be
rare and wonderful, but he must not give them long Latin names which
meant nothing.

One thing which troubled him was the difficulty of using the first
person when telling a story to the Mistress of the House. He could tell
his stories best in that fashion, but he did not believe that this
hearer would be satisfied with them; she would not be likely to give
them enough belief to make them interesting. He had a story all ready to
tell to the Daughter of the House, for he had been sure she would want
one some day soon, and this one, told in a manner which would please
him, he thought would please her; but it was very different with her
mother. He must be careful.

When the two ladies came to the bed where the beans were to be planted,
the gardener found that he had not mistaken their errand.

"John," said the Mistress of the House, "I hear you tell a very good
story, and I want you to tell me one. Let us find a shady place."

There was a pretty summer-house on the upper terrace, a shady place
where the air was cool and the view was fine; and there they went: but
there was no need of John Gayther's making any pretence of trimming up
pea-sticks this time.

"I have a story," said he, his stool at a respectful distance from the
two ladies, who were seated on a bench outside the little house.

"Is it about yourself?" asked the Daughter