It was getting spring by now—sort of raw weather once in a while; but the grass was getting green, and some of Bonnie Bell's flowers she had planted was beginning to show up through the ground, and once in a while she would go out, in old clothes mostly, with maybe a cap and a apern and fuss round with her flowers. She wouldn't never look across at the Wisner house.
Their hired man that taken care of their dog was the one that taken care of their flowers, same as she did of ours. One morning it seems like, not noticing each other, they was working along kind of close to the fence, not far apart from each other, and all at once he stands up and sees her.
"Good morning!" says he, which Bonnie Bell couldn't help.
She looks up and sees him standing there, with his hat in his hand, respectful enough; and, since he was only one of their hired people, her not feeling any way but friendly to anybody on earth that is halfway decent to her, she says:
"Good morning! I see you're fixing your flowers too."
"Yes," says he; "these crocuses will soon be out. What color is yours?"
"All sorts," says she; "and I do hope they'll all do well."
"I'd be glad to be of any help I could," says he.
"Well, that's kind of you," says she; "you, being a gardener, know more about these things than I do." About then this here collie dog comes up to where he is standing.
"Oh, goodness!" says Bonnie Bell. "Don't let that dog come over in our yard, whatever you do."