The first week of my flower wardenship was a most strenuous one. I use
the word reluctantly, but having tried half a dozen others, no
equivalent seemed to fit. I had flowers in every room in the house,
bedchambers included, using in this connection the cleanest-breathed and
longest-lived blossoms possible.
Late as was the sowing, the annuals remaining in the seed bed have begun
to yield a glorious crop. The fireplaces were filled with black-eyed
Susans from the fields and hollyhocks from an old self-seeded colony at
Opal Farm, and every available vase, bowl, and pitcher had something in
it. How I laboured! I washed jars, sorted colours, and freshened still
passable arrangements of the day before, and all the while I felt sure
that Maria was watching me, with an amused twinkle in the tail of her
eye!
One day, the middle of last week, the temperature dropped suddenly, and
we fled from camp to the house for twenty-four hours, lighted the logs
in the hall, and actually settled down to a serious game of whist in the
evening, Maria Maxwell, _The Man_, Bart, and I. Yes, I know how you
detest the game, but I--though I am not exactly amused by it--rather
like it, for it gives occupation at once for the hands and thoughts and
a cover for studying the faces and moods of friends without the reproach
of staring.
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