Demaris opened the gate and walked up the narrow path. There was a low hedge of pink and purple candytuft on each side. Inside the hedges were little beds of homely flowers in the shapes of hearts, diamonds and Maltese crosses.
Mrs. Eaton was stooping over a rosebush, but she arose when she heard the click of the gate. She stood looking at Demaris, with her arms hanging stiffly at her sides.
“Oh,” she said, with a grim smile; “you, is it?”
“Yes,” said the girl, blushing and looking embarrassed. “Ain’t it a nice evenin’?”
“It is that; awful nice. I’m tyin’ up my rosebushes. Won’t you come in an’ set down a while?”
“Oh, my, no!” said Demaris. Her eyes went wistfully to the pink rosebush. “I can’t stay.”
“Come fer kindlin’ wood?”
“No.” She laughed a little at the worn-out joke. “I come to see ’f you had two or three pink roses to spare.”
“Why, to be sure, a dozen if you want. Just come an’ help yourself. My hands ain’t fit to tech ’em after diggin’ so.”
She stood watching the girl while she carefully selected some half-open roses. There was a look of good-natured curiosity on her face.
“Anything goin’ on at the church to-night?”
“No; at least not that I know of.”
“It must be a party then.”
“No—not a party, either.” She laughed merrily. Her face was hidden as she bent over the roses, but her ears were pink under the heavy brown hair that fell, curling, over them.
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