“But, Papa! I’ve stuck to gardening for more than two years!” Olivia’s tone seemed to give those years the dignity of centuries.
“True; but you haven’t got your sun-dial. You will consider that the finishing 224 touch, and then before we know it you will be wanting to turn the whole thing into a sand-garden for the little micks at the Corners.”
“Not such a bad idea,” Olivia admitted unguardedly.
“There you are! The mere mention of a new scheme is enough to set you agog!”
But this was not their first fencing match, and Olivia had learned to parry.
“I thought you believed in people being open-minded,” she ventured demurely.
“And so I do; but not so open-minded that for every new idea that comes in an old one goes out.”
“Oh, the sun-dial hasn’t got away yet,” she laughed, springing to her feet and going over to the court-end of the garden, where she placed herself in the exact centre of the converging rose-beds.
“There!” she cried; “don’t you see how my white gown lights up the whole place? It’s just the high light that it needs.”
And so it was: a fact of which no one 225 was better aware than the professor. As he, too, rose and sauntered toward the house he could not deny that Olivia’s ideas were usually good. The only trouble was that she had too many of them; and here was the kernel of truth that gave substance to his whimsical argument. The beauty of the garden was not lost upon him, nor yet the skill and industry of the young gardener. But more important than either was the advantage to the girl’s health. Olivia was sound as a nut; of course she was! There could be no doubt of that. But—so had her mother seemed, until that fatal winter ten years ago. He did not fear for Olivia; why should he? Only—well, this out-of-door life was a capital thing for anybody. No, he could not have her tire of her garden.