“No, it wasn’t the calf, but they are all gone. Mary Winkle took them all.”
“Oh!” said Ezra with a slight shock of surprise.
“Yes, she has cleared the whole garden. She came to-day while I was out at Mrs. Huntley’s.”
“How do you know it is she who has taken them?”
“Napoleon Pompey told me he saw her pick them.”
“Depend upon it, he is lying,” said Ezra with emphasis. “Negroes are as mischievous as monkeys, and——”
“No, he didn’t do anything to the flowers,” interrupted Olive. “He was as pleased with them almost as I was myself, and worked ever so hard to help keep down the weeds. Besides, I went to Mary Winkle and saw them.”
“Oh!” said Ezra helplessly. He wished it had been the calf or Napoleon Pompey or anybody or anything rather than Mary Winkle. He braced himself for what was coming.
“She told me she did it with a purpose. She said I was getting more individualistic in my leanings every day, and that time was not curing me at all, that I was selfishly proud of my flowers. It isn’t one bit true,” sobbed Olive, with quivering chin. “I gave heaps of them away. I gathered a bunch for Mrs. Huntley just as I was going this morning.”
Ezra groaned. “I know you did, dear,” he said.