“Now let’s go tell mother,” said Cassy, and took to her heels, Jerry following.
Up the shabby dark stairway they ran, Cassy stepping lightly, Jerry, boy-like, with clattering tread. Mrs. Law glanced up from her sewing as they entered. “We’ve got a garden,” said Cassy in a loud whisper.
“What do you mean?” inquired her mother, breaking off her thread with a snap.
“We have truly,” Cassy insisted. “It’s under an old chair in the back yard.”
“That’s a queer place for a garden,” responded her mother, rethreading her needle and taking swift stitches.
“Yes, but it happened itself, you know, and so we have to have it there. We’re so afraid Billy Miles will pull it up. Jerry thinks maybe it’s a weed, but we’re going to hope it’s a flower, a real flower. What would you like it to be, mother, a rose?”
“I’m afraid that would be setting my hopes too high. Let me see, perhaps it might be a morning-glory.”
“Are they pretty, morning-glories?”
“Yes, very.”
“What color?”