"Let's peep in the gate," said Betty, "it's such a sweet little house."
"Wait till you see the house I mean to have," quoth John.
But Betty preferred to peep in then. She went close to the half-open gate and popped in her head.
Inside the gate was a garden, and all its beds were defined by upended stout bottles—weedless, sweet-scented beds wherein grew such blooms as daisies, and violets, stocks, sweetpeas, sweet williams, lad's love and mignonette.
"Oh!" said Betty. "Oh—just smell! just put your head in for a minute, John."
But John was for "pushing on," and getting to Sydney to make his shilling two.
While they were parleying, a man came round the corner of the "sweet little house," and his eyes fell on the bonneted maiden.
"Hullo!" he exclaimed, "and who's this? Polly?"
"No," said Betty.
"Na-o. Then p'raps it's Lucy. Eh?"