It is very difficult to have a conscience as well as a garden and to keep both in good working order. I could not think Mrs Gunnet and her rheumatism as important as my garden; moreover, I felt I was carrying out the teaching of Tolstoy in bringing man and his Mother Earth into direct contact.
"Griggs could not come anyhow, he is digging a grave," I said conclusively. "Let us do it."
So the Young Man fetched a selection of gardening implements and we both set to work, he to dig and I to instruct.
"This is delphinium," I cried joyfully, handing him a big clump, "dark blue, I want it badly." And in answer to an inquiring look, for the Young Man knew less, much less, than I did, "That is larkspur and it is a perennial, and this jolly big root means plenty of spikes."
"Spikes!" he echoed, patting the roots vigorously.
"Those tall spikes of flowers, you know, very blue. One looks so lonely all by itself."
"Ah! that is a way we all have, we poor solitary ones."
"These are penstemons. They are, well, I forget, but I know I want them. Suppose we put them further forward; they don't look like growing so tall. Gaillardias, ah! I know, they are brilliant and effective. I bought some seeds to suit the others. These will save time. Now, a big hole; this is Tritoma. What on earth is that? I have heard. Grandis means big but Tritoma?"
We both studied the label.