“Why shouldn’t you come over and have tea with us then?” she asked abruptly. “We’re all alone, too. My brother’s gone to the County Fair an’ ain’t comin’ back ’til to-morrow.”
Lucy’s eyes lighted with pleasure.
“You’re very kind,” she cried, a tremor of happiness in her tone. “I’d love to come.”
They walked along, balancing their burden of berries and chatting of garden, weather, and housework. 119
As they turned in at the Howe gate, Jane motioned proudly toward three rows of flourishing vines that were clambering up a network of sustaining brush.
“Those are our sweet peas,” she remarked. “The first row is Mary’s; they’re white. Then come Eliza’s—pink ones. Mine are purple. Martin won’t plant his over here. He has ’em longside of the barn, an’ they’re all colors mixed together. We don’t like ’em that way, but he does. He’s awful fond of flowers, an’ he has great luck with ’em, too. He seems to have a great way with flowers. But he never cuts one blossom he raises. Ain’t that queer? He says he likes to see ’em growin’.”
They were nearing the house.
“I reckon Mary an’ ’Liza will be surprised enough to have me come bringin’ you home,” observed Jane a trifle consciously. “We ain’t done much neighboring, have we?”
“No,” returned Lucy quickly, “and I’ve been sorry. It seems a pity we shouldn’t be friends even if——” she stopped, embarrassed.
“Even if your aunt an’ Martin do act like a pair of fools,” interrupted Jane. “Senseless, ain’t it! Besides, it ain’t Christian livin’ 120 at odds with people. I never did approve of it.”