NANCY'S PHILOSOPHY.
Nancy McVeigh was in her garden behind the tavern when young John Keene called on her for the first time since his return from Chicago, after two years' absence from the homely atmosphere of the Monk Road.
Nancy's garden was a source of great enjoyment to her, and many happy hours she spent within the enclosure, which old Donald had built so securely that not even a chick could trespass to harm the sprouting seeds. Early spring saw her with tucked-up skirt, a starched sun-bonnet on her head, and hoe or rake in her hand, availing herself of every quiet hour in the day to plant and mark out the beds. Then followed a ceaseless watchfulness, throughout the hot summer, to regulate the watering and weeding, interspersed with pleasant speculation as to the results, and in the later months her well-merited boastings over her success.
She was picking beans for the dinner, and incidentally noting the progress of her early vegetables, when Katie Duncan ushered young John Keene through the tavern to the rear door and into the garden.
"At your old tricks, Mistress McVeigh," the new-comer called, cheerily, as he advanced with out-stretched hand.
"Well, bless me soul, Johnny!" she exclaimed, rising and kissing him with motherly blindness to his manly appearance. "I heard yesterday that ye had returned. Mrs. Conors told me, an' she said ye might be takin' a wife before ye leave. She's a rare gossip, that body, an' knows a thing a'most before it happens," Nancy added, in an explanatory way.
"As if you didn't know that yourself," young John answered, laughing.
"The two years went by so quick like, that I scarce felt the loss o' ye. Faith, an' the older one gets the shorter the days, it seems. The garden's lookin' promisin'," she observed, inviting his opinion.
"Splendid!" he replied, giving it a hasty scrutiny.
"I've beans, an' radishes, an' new potatoes already, an' the cucumbers and corn'll be fit to pick in a week," Nancy said, proudly. Then she remembered her hospitality.