Mrs. Eaton was stooping over a rosebush, but she arose when she heard the click of the gate. She stood looking at Demaris, with her arms hanging stiffly at her sides.
“Oh,” she said, with a grim smile; “you, is it?”
“Yes,” said the girl, blushing and looking embarrassed. “Ain’t it a nice evenin’?”
“It is that; awful nice. I’m tyin’ up my rosebushes. Won’t you come in an’ set down a while?”
“Oh, my, no!” said Demaris. Her eyes went wistfully to the pink rosebush. “I can’t stay.”
“Come fer kindlin’ wood?”
“No.” She laughed a little at the worn-out joke. “I come to see ’f you had two or three pink roses to spare.”
“Why, to be sure, a dozen if you want. Just come an’ help yourself. My hands ain’t fit to tech ’em after diggin’ so.”
She stood watching the girl while she carefully selected some half-open roses. There was a look of good-natured curiosity on her face.
“Anything goin’ on at the church to-night?”