"I'll help you, Mother," promised Rosemary. "Sarah and Shirley can go out and play, but I'll help you and Winnie unpack."
However, when Sarah and Shirley dashed out of the house a few minutes later, Rosemary was with them. Mrs. Willis had explained that her eldest daughter could help her more by "looking after" the impetuous Shirley and that unknown quantity, Sarah, than by remaining in the house to open the trunks and boxes.
"I am going to do just as much as I can and then stop," the mother said, smilingly. "I promised Hugh and Winnie to be temperate and not tire myself needlessly. Hugh will probably call up this morning and I want to be here when he does. You run along with Sarah and Shirley, Rosemary—Mother feels safe about them when she knows you are with them."
Rosemary flushed with pleasure and resolved to be worthy of the confidence. She would be more patient than she had ever been before.
"It's just like Rosemary, to offer to stay in and help," said Winnie, watching the three girls cut across the lawn in the direction of the barns, "you could see plain she was crazy to go out and look around, but she never grabs what she wants—that child was born unselfish."
Rainbow Hill was what, in the farming parlance, is known as "an all around" place. That meant the owner, Mr. Hammond, believed in general farming as distinguished from the specialized type such as truck farming or dairying. Some oats and wheat were grown at Rainbow Hill, several acres of tomatoes raised yearly for the cannery, a good crop of hay harvested; there would be one "field crop" raised for marketing, generally potatoes or cabbage. The milk from a small herd of cows was sold at the local creamery and all food for the animals on the place was grown on the farm. How much hard work was bound up in the tilling of the well-ordered fields, the cultivation of the thrifty orchard and the healthy aspect presented by the live stock was something the three Willis girls could not be expected to grasp at once. Everything was beautifully neat, from the freshly swept barn floor to the white-washed chicken houses; not a weed showed its head in the large vegetable garden and a town-bred girl might easily make the mistake of thinking that this state of affairs was always to be found on every farm—something to be taken for granted, like fresh eggs or new milk.
It was in the vegetable garden that they found Warren Baker. He was dressed in a clean blue shirt and dark blue overalls and he was on his knees beside a long row of thin green spikes.
"Good morning," he greeted the visitors politely. "Out seeing the sights? But didn't you forget your hats?"
Warren wore an immense straw hat that shaded the back of his neck as effectively as his face.
"Oh, we don't want to bother with hats," said Rosemary carelessly. "Aren't those onions you're weeding?"