“A mere shed.”
“We live in it, grandmother and I. And we have chickens and ducks, and a little bit of a garden, with a made soil, where we raise radishes and lettuce and cabbage and potatoes.”
“No flowers?”
“Oh, yes; a red rose-bush, and a white rose-bush, and pinks, and pansies and larkspurs.”
“Oh, that is pretty! Is your grandmother nice?”
“Oh! I tell you!” heartily answered the boy.
“Would she let me come to see her?”
“Why, of course she would, and glad!”
“Well, then, will you take me over there to see your grandmother, David Lindsay?”
“Yes, indeed, that I will, if your uncle will let you go.”