"About the ivy on the north wall? You wanted it thinned. You thought it a degree too straggling."
"Yes,—yes; of course. You hear, Michael, I want it clipped and thinned, and—— There was something else about the ivy, my child, wasn't there?"
"You wished it mixed with the variegated kind, did you not?"
"Ah, of course. I wonder how I ever got on without Lilian," says the old lady, gently pinching the girl's soft peach-like cheek. "Florence, without doubt, is a comfort,—but—she is not fond of gardening. Shall we come and take a peep at the grapes, dear?" And so on.
Occasionally, too,—being fond of living out of doors in the summer, and being a capital farmeress,—Lady Chetwoode takes a quiet walk down to the home farm, to inspect all the latest arrivals. And here, too, Miss Lilian must needs follow.
There are twelve merry, showy little calves in one field, that run all together in their ungainly, jolting fashion up to the high gate that guards their domain, the moment Lady Chetwoode and her visitor arrive, under the mistaken impression that she and Lilian are a pair of dairy-maids coming to solace them with unlimited pans of milk.
Lilian cries "Shoo!" at the top of her gay young voice, and instantly all the handsome, foolish things scamper away as though destruction were at their heels, leaving Miss Chesney delighted at the success of her own performance.
Then in the paddock there are four mad little colts to be admired, whose chief joy in life seems to consist in kicking their hind legs wildly into space, while their more sedate mothers stand apart and compare notes upon their darlings' merit.
This paddock is Lilian's special delight, and all the way there, and all the way back she chatters unceasingly, making the old lady's heart grow young again, as she listens to, and laughs at, all the merry stories Miss Chesney tells her of her former life.