“How would it do,” said Mr. Prescott, “to have just your Aunt Mary and Miss King? Your Uncle John can come at any time. Perhaps you would enjoy Tom more if he were to come alone.”
“I think,” said Billy, reflectively, “that would be a good plan.”
Then Billy told Mr. Prescott what Tom had said about being “nothing and nobody.”
“That’s good!” said Mr. Prescott, laughing. Then he added gravely, “Tom’s a faithful man.”
There was a garden. If Billy had ever dreamed about a garden, that would have been the garden of his dreams. Billy had never seen a garden like that.
It didn’t show at all from the front of the house; neither could it be seen from Billy’s windows; but there was a long garden with a round summer house at the end.
Because it was a city garden it had a high board fence on three sides. The fence was gray. Against it at the end, just behind the summer house, were rows of hollyhocks—pink, white, yellow, and rose—standing tall and straight, like sentinels on duty guard.
There were beds of asters, each color by itself, and great heaps of hydrangeas, almost tumbling over the lawn.
There were queer little trees. When Billy said that they looked like the trees on Japanese lanterns, Mr. Prescott said that they were real Japanese trees.
Billy didn’t see the whole of that garden until after he had been in it a great many times. After he did see it all, it became the garden of his dreams.