"It may be," she sighed, but with an unconvinced shrug. And still, before the summer was gone, the garden sedately, yet very sweetly, smiled again and even the visitors ventured back.
That was nearly three years ago. Only a few weeks since those two were in the company of an accomplished man who by some chance—being a Frenchman—had met and talked with this mother and her husband.
"We made a sad bungle there," said the visitors.
"Do not think it!" he protested. "They are your devoted friends. They speak of you with the tenderest regard. Moreover, I think they told me that last year—"
"Yes," rejoined one of the visitors, "last year their garden took one of the prizes."
THE MIDWINTER GARDENS OF NEW ORLEANS
If the following pages might choose their own time and place they would meet their reader not in the trolley-car or on the suburban train, but in his own home, comfortably seated. For in order to justify the eulogistic tone of the descriptions which must presently occupy them their first word must be a conciliatory protest against hurry. One reason we Americans garden so little is that we are so perpetually in haste. The art of gardening is primarily a leisurely and gentle one.