I was pretty tired myself, but I did a remarkably good evening’s work, nevertheless, only pausing before the start to wonder why it was she wept one night when she wasn’t tired, and smiled the next when she had tramped ten miles. But a man cannot afford to ponder such problems in feminine psychology too closely if he has anything else to do!
Chapter XI
ACTÆON AND DIANA
Memorial Day dawned fair and warm. Bert and his wife and all their “help” went off to the village after breakfast. There were no painters in my house, and Mike had milked the cows and gone home before I arrived. Miss Goodwin and I seemed to have that little section of Bentford quite to ourselves, after the last of the carryalls had rattled past, taking the veterans from Slab City to the town. Having no flag yet of my own, I borrowed one from Bert, and we hung it from a second-story window, facing the road, as our tiny contribution to the sentiment of the day. Then we tackled the rose trellis, speedily completing it, for only two arches remained to be built, one of the carpenters having built three for me the day before, while waiting for some shingles to come for the barn. Indeed, we had it done by ten o’clock.
“Now what?” said she.
I looked about the garden. The roses had not yet come, so we couldn’t very well plant them. I judged that the morning of a warm, sunny day was no time to transplant seedlings. The painting was not yet completed inside, so I could fix up no more of my rooms. The vegetable garden didn’t appear to need cultivation. We couldn’t paint the trellis, as there was no green paint.
“Good gracious!” I exclaimed, “this is the first time I’ve been at a loss for something to do. It’s a terrible sensation.”
“Couldn’t we build a bird bath?” she suggested.
“Madam,” said I, “you are a genius!”
“At the brook?” she added.