Miss Berrith. “Don’t be alarmed. It’s a complaint which can be remedied.”
“It’s not a complaint at all!” I exclaimed indignantly. “It’s a heartfelt thanksgiving. So this is the land?”
“From the big fir tree on the left,” she explained, “to the clump of white birches on the right, and as far back as the little stream.”
It was a delicious prospect, wholly uncultivated, and instinct with charming possibilities. In my delight I permitted myself a most injudicious burst of enthusiasm.
“Here is where I can raise the house!” I cried, pointing to the knoll.
“Here,” she said gravely, “is where you certainly can’t raise anything else. It’s all ledge.”
I made the fatal mistake of attempting to be facetious.
“How about self-raising flowers?”
Fatal, I say, because she promptly adopted my weak-kneed little joke, gave it a pat on
