"They know all our secrets," she said aloud.
John dropped the key into his pocket. "Have we any?"
"Perhaps not. I should have said our fears."
"Our hopes," he said stubbornly.
"I haven't many of those," she told him and, to hide her trouble, she put the fingers of both hands to her forehead.
"What's the matter with you? You sound pretty morbid."
"No, I'm only—careful. John, are you afraid of life?"
His eyes fell on the rows of springing vegetables. "Look at 'em coming up," he murmured. "Rather not. I couldn't grow things." He gathered up his tools and put them in the shed.
"You see," she said, "one never knows what's going to happen, but it's no good worrying, and I suppose one must just go on."
"It's the only thing to do," John assured her gravely. "Have you made yourself beautiful for the uncle?"