Turning to the flowers to aid her in an unforeseen situation by which she found herself much moved, she spied the great clump of white bridal roses, now putting out green shoots, that had spread from a single bush almost to a hedge, and which Miss Keith had pointed out in its winter leafless state as a much-cherished family possession. “Cut a root from this with your knife, carefully, for its thorns are long and sharp, and plant it by your porch, for the saying is that it brings luck to new homes,” she said quickly. As she watched him she thought of the verses in her letter, and all unconsciously repeated them half aloud, “‘Then mine at worst is everlasting hope—’” but a sharp exclamation from the man, who with back toward her was tugging at the rose root, stopped her; his hand had slipped, and the sharp thorn pierced his thumb to the bone.
It was the pieman’s day, and promptly at noon his cart turned into the barnyard. Mrs. Lawton, as well as Brooke, had come to look forward to the break made by his visits, for embodied cheerfulness must always be a welcome guest. This time, however, he was bustling with importance, and laid a pink envelope, with an embossed violet in the place of a seal, upon Brooke’s lap as she sat on the porch step waiting for him to settle and unfold his budget.
The envelope contained a painfully written letter from his wife’s sister, Sairy Ann, inviting Brooke to take the long-promised drive on the “Friday route,” and pass the night at her farm, “to see the early birds in the morning.” The sincerity of the invitation was so evident and the promised experience so tempting, that, after thinking it over a moment, Brooke went indoors to write an answer of acceptance, realizing that after the Sign of the Fox should be hung in its place there could be no holidays.
“Going, bean’t you?” smiled the pieman, when she returned.
“Yes,” she nodded gayly, “that is, if I can persuade Mrs. Peck to keep mother company. You see I have hunted far and wide for a young girl to help in our new venture,” of which, by the way, the pieman most heartily approved, and had been heralding it like the most persistent advance agent along the entire course of both his town and country routes.
“Never mind, suthin’ may turn up yet,” he advised soothingly; “you’ve got a week to spare and the Lord can raise up a heap o’ good as well as trouble in that time, and sometimes waitin’ fer Providence after you’ve done your best is advisable, and not to be jedged like settin’ and waitin’ before you’ve done aught, and leaning, which is not faith, but the devil’s yeast of laziness.”
In the early afternoon, after the pieman had gone on his way, Brooke wheeled her father into the garden, while she planted the seeds of mignonette, bluets, sweet-sultan, and China pinks, and the second planting of sweet peas of Miss Keith’s saving, in the long rows that she had advised, for now there would be a double reason for having jugs of fragrant flowers on the table of the honeysuckle-screened south porch, which Brooke had christened the Tea House.
Tatters was worried. Indoors he stayed by his master, outdoors he followed his mistress—under the present circumstances, what was his duty? First he licked Adam Lawton’s hand persistently, and then followed Brooke along the line she had carefully marked with stick and string, according to Stead’s gardening instructions, until he was made to understand that his footprints in the newly turned earth were not things to be desired; then he returned to the chair.
There could be no question that physically Adam Lawton was in every way improving. The use of his hand was gradually returning, and with the aid of a cane he could move slowly from the bed to his chair; he could also play a game of checkers, and though he spoke slowly the words were finished, not broken as at first. Still his thoughts were of the past and lacked connection.