"Where do you suppose I found it?" I asked.
"Down by the old Talcott place," he hazarded.
"No. There is some there, but this was growing under our crab-apple trees, right beside the house."
"Well, now, it must have been some of Aunt Deborah's. I remember hearing Uncle Ben say she used to have her garden there; that must have been before he started the crab orchard. Why, that phlox can't be less than forty years old, anyway."
"Dear me!" I took back the delicate spray; "it doesn't look it."
"No. Don't you wish you could look like that when you're forty?" he philosophized; and added, "Is there much of it?"
"Five or six roots, but there won't be many blossoms, it's so shady."
"We might move it and give it a chance."
"Let's! We'll dig it up this fall, and put it over on the south side of the house, in that sunny open place."
When October came, we took Aunt Deborah's phlox and transplanted it to where it could get the sunshine it had been starving for all those years. I sat on a stump and watched Jonathan digging the holes.