"They say it's about the prettiest garden anywhere round," added Aunt Jane. "I've heard there's only one or two gardens to compare with it—as beautiful as his."
"Yes, I've heard so."
"It's real kind in him to think of it—sending you out there.... He's a good man," she added diplomatically. "He's cranky, but he's good!"
"He's an old dear!" said the girl heartily.
Aunt Jane stared. Her countenance was subdued. "Well—I don't know as I should call him old!"... She considered it. "I don't believe he's a day over fifty!" she concluded.
"I don't believe he is," assented Miss Canfield. "I should say that's just about what he is—fifty." She gathered up the towels.
Aunt Jane's face was a study. It opened out in little lines of protest—and closed slowly. "Fifty isn't so very old!" she finished mildly.
"Of course not. And he's an active man—for his years." Miss Canfield carried the pile of linen to the cupboard and stowed it away and came back. "What shall I do with these?" She pointed to the discarded pile.
Aunt Jane looked at it critically and sighed. "Leave it there! I'll take 'em along when I go to give 'em their talking to. I can't stop for it now."