“Am it dem posies, Miss Courage?” and the question let the light in on Larry's bewildered mind.
“Of course I mean the flowers,” said Courage, laying one hand caressingly on a poor little dismantled plant. “You have not left a single one, and I wouldn't have had you pick them for all the world.”
“But I was 'bliged to, Miss Courage,” with all the aplomb of a conscientious performance of duty.
“Obliged to?” and then it seemed to occur simultaneously to Larry and Courage that they had possibly secured the services of a veritable little lunatic.
“Yes, Miss Courage; hab you neber hearn tell of a kitchen garden?”
“Never,” said Courage; and now she and Larry exchanged glances as to the certainty of Sylvia's mental condition.
“Well, I'se a kitchen-garden grajate,” Sylvia announced with no little pride.
“Bless my stars! if you're not a stark little idiot,” muttered Larry under his breath, but fortunately Sylvia was too absorbed to hear.
“Well, dere ain't much you kin tell a kitchen-garden grajate,” she continued complacently, “'bout setting tables and sich like. Dere's questions and answers 'bout eberyting, you know, an' when Miss Sylvester ses, 'What must yer hab in de middle ob de table?' the answer is, 'Fruit or flowers so as there wasn't no fruit, why—” and Sylvia, pausing abruptly, gave a little shrug of her shoulders, and with a grandiloquent gesture, pointed to the geraniums, as though further words were superfluous.
“Oh, I didn't understand,” said Courage, for both she and Larry were beginning to comprehend the situation, and a little later on, when they had had time to realize more fully the careful arrangement of the table, to say nothing of the tempting dishes themselves, they were ready to pronounce the little lunatic of a few moments previous a veritable treasure. The ham was done “to a turn;” the fried potatoes were deliciously crisp; dainty little biscuits fairly melted in your mouth; the coffee was perfection, and Sylvia sat beaming and radiant, for there was no lack of openly expressed appreciation.