"What's his last name?"
"Mr. Badger," replied Hazel, and she didn't notice the sudden stiffening that went through Miss Fletcher.
"What is your last name?" asked the lady, in a changed voice.
"Wright."
This time any one who had eyes for something beside the flowers might have seen Miss Fletcher start. Color flew into her thin cheeks, and the eyes that stared at Hazel's straw tam-o'-shanter grew dim. This was dear Mabel Badger's child; her little namesake, her own flesh and blood.
Her jaw felt rigid as she asked the next question. "Have you ever spoken to your uncle Dick about my garden?"
"Yes, indeed. That's why he let me make one; and every night he asks, 'Well, how's Miss Fletcher's garden to-day,' and I tell him all about it"
"And didn't he ever say anything to you about me?"
"Why, no;" the child looked up wonderingly. "He doesn't know you, does he?"
"We used to know one another," returned Miss Fletcher stiffly.