up the day before, and making furows in which to drop seeds. From the turn of the road, by the knotty old willows, Claude saw her pink starched dress and little white sun-bonnet. He hurried forward.
“Hello, are you farming?” he called as he came up to the fence.
Enid, who was bending over at that moment, rose quickly, but without a start. “Why, Claude! I thought you were out West somewhere. This is a surprise!” She brushed the earth from her hands and gave him her limp white ringers. Her arms, bare below the elbow, were thin, and looked cold, as if she had put on a summer dress too early.
“I just got back this morning. I’m walking out home. What are you planting?”
“Sweet peas.”
“You always have the finest ones in the country. When I see a bunch of yours at church or anywhere, I always know them.”
“Yes, I’m quite successful with my sweet peas,” she admitted. “The ground is rich down here, and they get plenty of sun.”
“It isn’t only your sweet peas. Nobody else has such lilacs or rambler roses, and I expect you have the only wistaria vine in Frankfort county.”
“Mother planted that a long while ago, when she first moved here. She is very partial to wistaria. I’m afraid we’ll lose it, one of these hard winters.”
“Oh, that would be a shame! Take good care of it. You must put in a lot of time looking after these things, anyway.” He spoke admiringly.
Enid leaned against the fence and pushed back her little
