The two girls crept up the stairs and listened at their mother’s door. Mary’s shoulder jarred the knob and Mrs. Garden called out:
“Is some one there?”
Softly, as if she had not spoken and might be asleep, Mary opened the door barely enough to admit, first Jane, then herself.
“Good morning, mother dear,” Mary said. “Have we kept you waiting? Did you want to get up and go out in the garden before?”
“Before!” cried Mrs. Garden. “Angels and ministers of grace defend us! You out and out little American aborigine! It can’t be much after five o’clock, and you ask me if I have wanted to go into the garden earlier?”
Mary looked so confused that Jane came to her rescue. “You see, mother, we get up at this time in summer. It’s far lovelier in the garden now even than at sunset, fresher, and the birds sing quite differently. When we were little we used to play we were Adam and Eve, if we got up in time; we called it our ‘new garden’ at this hour. We never thought we could be Adam and Eve after breakfast.”
“I’ve no doubt, Jane. In any case, Adam and Eve were not in the garden after they had eaten. But you see I’ve no desire to play at Adam and Eve! I’ve not the least doubt that the garden is charming at dawn—but you see, my dears, the dawn is not charming; at least not as alluring as my comfortable bed. This is a remarkably comfortable bed, by the way. What time do you imagine I rise, girls?” asked Mrs. Garden.
Mary shook her head. “It sounds as though you meant us to guess a shocking hour, mother dear,” she said.
“Not nearly as shocking as five o’clock, Mary dear,” retorted her mother. “At home I have tea and rolls in bed, and come down about noon.”
“Mercy! The day is just half gone then!” cried Jane.