“Good-night, sweet garden, our best friend; rest well and waken refreshed. My best gift has been my mother. Keep her for me, and increase her health and happiness next year.”
“Good-night, old garden, true friend,” said Win. “My best gift this year”—he hesitated—“has been hope and greater happiness. Fructify both for me next year.”
Mark bent over the sod.
“Good-night, new-old friend, noble garden,” he said. “My best gift this year has been through the Gardens—home, affection, hope. Keep my gifts for me, and let them grow great another year.”
Mrs. Garden bowed low, her hand upon the sun dial.
“Good-night, sweet garden, patient friend. My best gift was won coming back to thee. My best gift this year, and for all years, is my children. Guard their health, and help me keep them, the flower of your soil, forever.”
She straightened herself and looked around. Mary’s deep blue eyes, Jane’s golden ones, Florimel’s glowing black ones smiled at her.
“My Garden blossoms,” she cried. “My best gift, truly, is that I’ve learned to be your mother!”
Mary turned toward the house, a hand on her mother’s shoulder, the other on Jane’s arm. Florimel, behind them, encircled her mother with her hands on her sisters’ shoulders.
“Now we are all going from our happy, put-to-bed garden into our happy, waking house! Come, boys, both!” Mary said.