"No, but they will be soon. I—why, I just thought I'd see what they were doing."
"So you dug them up?" he probed.
"Not them—just it—just one. That's why I marked the place. I didn't want to keep disturbing different ones. Now what are you laughing at? Wouldn't you have wanted to know? And you wouldn't want to dig up different ones all the time! I don't know much about gardening, but—"
"I'm not laughing," said Jonathan. "Of course I should have wanted to know. And it is certainly better not to dig up different ones. There! Have I put your Mizpah back right?"
A few days later Jonathan wheeled into the yard and over near where I was kneeling by the phlox. "I saw a lady-slipper bud almost out to-day," he said.
"Did you? Look at my sweet alyssum. It's grown an inch since yesterday," I said. "Don't you think I could plant my cosmos and asters now?"
"Thunder!" said Jonathan; "don't you care more about the pink lady-slipper than about your blooming little sweet alyssum?"
"Why, yes, of course. I love lady-slippers. You know I do," I protested; "only—you see—I can't explain exactly—but—it seems to make a difference when you plant a thing yourself. And, oh, Jonathan! Won't you please come here and tell me if these are young pansies or only plantain? I'm so afraid of pulling up the wrong thing. I do wish somebody would make a book with pictures of all the cotyledons of all the different plants. It's so confusing. Millie had an awful time telling marigold from ragweed last summer. She had to break off a tip of each leaf and taste it. Why do you just stand there looking like that? Please come and help."
But Jonathan did not move. He stood, leaning on his wheel, regarding me with open amusement, and possibly a shade of disapproval.