“They will, Ellen. That’s their job! But I’m putting in beets and Mr. Archibald’s planting beans.”
The Smiling Lady sat back on her heels, pushed back her hair with a grimy hand, and looked up into the disapproving face of the scandalized personage in spotless blue chambray and white apron and cap.
“You can’t think what a success Mr. Archibald’s been.”
The man at the other end of the garden looked up and grinned his gratitude for the testimonial, then went back to his absorbing task.
“He’s wasted on painting, Ellen,” the girl went on gaily. “When you bring artistic genius to bear on a vegetable garden, you’re getting somewhere; but pictures—Pouff! Who eats pictures? He’s strong, too—and willing—and very industrious. I don’t see but what our gardening problem is solved for this summer.”
“If you could be seein’ yourself, Miss Nora!”
Ellen’s voice was dripping with disapproval.
“But I can’t. That’s the beauty of it. And when I go up to make myself tidy, I sha’n’t look in the mirror until after I’ve washed—so I’ll never know the worst—and gardening’s no fun at all if one keeps clean. Look at Mr. Archibald. He was perfectly clean when he came—painfully clean. Isn’t he splendid now?”
Archibald had finished his row and came toward them, sleeves rolled up, collar a limp rag, coatless, perspiring, dirt incrusted, radiating satisfaction.
“There isn’t a bean a twentieth of an inch out of plumb in that row,” he boasted. “Straight as a string, the whole procession. It’ll be a garden ornament.