the garden girls had always kept garden day, at least since they had been old enough to devise it. it was the ingathering feast of their garden, the day when the dahlia, gladiola, and other summer bulbs were taken up, and the annual additions to the tulips, daffodils, narcissi, and crocuses were made. when the delicate plants which were worth saving were potted to be housed, the autumn seeds sown for spring growing, the pansies put to bed under leaves and straw, the roses laid down and covered, the stalks of vines straw-wound, and plants needing protection straw-thatched. no gardener was allowed to perform these tasks alone. mary, jane, and florimel had insisted, from the time that the older two were small girls, and florimel was not much more than a baby, on bidding their garden this autumnal farewell. for, though they would wander through its paths during the warm days which stray into november, and,303 even in the winter, spend hours out of doors, this day marked the formal closing of the garden. they observed this feast on the 30th of october, when the weather allowed, or when it did not fall on a sunday; in case of storm, or when the day came on sunday, the garden day was kept on november 2d.

“it should be either the eve of the eve of allhallow, or on all souls’ day,” mary had decided when they were discussing the permanent date of their observance. “we can’t have it on halloween, because there is likely to be something going on that we’d want to take part in. but we ought to keep our garden day near to all saints’, or else right on all souls’ day. those are harvest days, you see: the ingathering of beautiful characters. i think we ought to keep our beautiful flowers’ day at that time.”

“you nice mary!” jane endorsed her. “and let’s call it slumber day, because we tuck all our flowers up in their beds then.”

thus slumber day became a settled observance with the gardens, and around it many little customs gathered, pleasant little fanciful things which, once done, seemed good to the girls and were noted for repetition.

“this year there are four girls instead of304 three, little madrina!” said mary. “you mustn’t work and get tired—we get so tired on this day we can hardly eat our supper! but you must help on slumber day, or it won’t seem right. we forgot to tell you about the uniform! isn’t that too bad! of course something else will answer.”

“anne told me about it; mine is ready,” mrs. garden said, and she looked delighted to be able to surprise her girls with this answer. “breakfast at seven on that day, anne says. i wonder whether i can get ready so early! i shall, whether i can or not!” mrs. garden hastily forestalled mary’s coming suggestion that the hour be made later for her benefit.

she was as good as her word. at ten minutes to seven she ran downstairs, dressed in the slumber day uniform, a dark-blue, plain gingham, short skirt, plain shirt waist, tan gingham collar and cuffs—selected because it was so near loam colour—an enamel cloth apron, long enough to kneel on, rubber gloves, and a cap of the dark-blue gingham, made like a dusting cap, but each one ornamented with a bright-green cotton wing, wired so that it stood straight and defiant and gave a touch of festivity to the otherwise sternly practical costume.

305 “doesn’t she look dear in that?” cried florimel, rushing over to snatch her mother off her feet in an enthusiastic salute.

“i wonder why it is, but if any one really is pretty and stylish she looks better in working clothes than she does dressed up! mary and i would rather have had a red wing in our cap, but they had to be alike, and jane isn’t quite as pretty in red as she is in other things.”

jane laughed. “pussy-cat way of putting it, mel, creeping on tippy-toes! fancy bright red on my hair!” she cried.

“how nice, how pretty you all look—well, yes; i suppose i might say we all look, since i’m dressed like you, but i can’t see the effect of the fourth uniform,” mrs. garden corrected herself, seeing florimel’s protest coming. “you look like a trio costumed for something in light opera.”

“the digger maidens,” suggested win. “i’ve got to go to the office this morning, as i told you, but i promise to help you all the afternoon. so long, till then.” he went off whistling. jane turned from the window with a wave of her hand to win, who chanced to look back.

“i think win is as nice as a boy can be. he’s so indifferent about it, too; doesn’t seem to think he’s good looking and clever, and he306 couldn’t be kinder, nor more truthful and straight. sometimes he strikes me all over again, as if i’d just met him! he’s a splendid boy, honestly,” she said.

“when i was here before, i mean when i first came here, your father used to say that win would grow up to be the kind of man that never seems to do anything in particular, but which quietly fills a big place in the community. win was but a little lad then, yet his half-brother was perfectly right about him. we all think that a great man is one with great talents, or who achieves great deeds, but, after all, if one who has a great heart, a great conscience, great truth, great steadfastness, great loyalty, isn’t a great man, i wonder who is? and win has all these things,” said mrs. garden.

“why, madrina, how nice!” cried mary, delighted. “i never had the least idea that you cared so much about win.”

“win didn’t care so much about me, mary, when i came home,” said mrs. garden, with a smile. “he had been devoted to me when i lived here, but he could not forgive me for leaving you for my beloved work in the world. i don’t blame him; he could not understand what slight excuse there was for it. i see now that its307 principal justification was that i was not prepared to bring you up; i had to learn. but now win is forgiving me, and, i hope, getting fonder of me again.”

“little madrina, you are growing up, my child! you are almost as old as jane, sometimes, and we all know how profoundly old jane is, in her thoughtful mining into things! come along, little garden girls, little lynette, janie, florimel! we must begin our slumber day ceremonies!” cried mary.

arming themselves with a trowel apiece, the garden girls, to follow mary’s example and counting mrs. garden as one of them, went out of the house. they marched to the great ox-heart cherry tree which gave its shade to one corner of the grassy end of the garden where the seats stood, and which gave its delicious fruit abundantly, late in june, to the gardens and to their neighbours. here the girls paused. “we first sing the lullaby slumber day, you know,” florimel explained to her mother.

under the tree, with trowels waving in a cradle motion, the girls sang “kücken’s lullaby.” it was really pleasing in effect; florimel sang acceptably, jane’s voice was extraordinary, and mary’s alto was sweet and deep.

308 “we are sorry we have not started in with another lullaby, but we sang this long ago, when we didn’t know any other,” said florimel apologetically in response to her mother’s praise. “that’s always our opening hymn.”

the forenoon passed in work that was solid, although varied by fantastic ceremonies. as, for instance, “the gladiola gladness” was a triumphant dance in which the gladiola bulbs were borne aloft in a basket, in a whirling dance, celebrating their past blossoming.

“jane does this because we think she’s most like a gladiolus, thin and reddish and brilliant,” florimel explained.

mary had the ceremony of the pansy covering. she covered them with leaves and made mysterious passes over their visible little forms.

“pansies for thought, sleep as you ought,

sleep, but awake for your true lover’s sake,”

mary repeated as she did this; it was the incantation of her childhood.

florimel took up the dahlias. the girls had early recognized their own types, and had distributed tasks accordingly. florimel’s dark, vigorous beauty was suited to dahlias as well as mary’s quiet loveliness harmonized with309 pansies. with the dahlia bulbs florimel executed a solo march, formal steps and courtly gestures its ritual.

so the morning went on, filled with work, but work brightened to play, and elevated close to poetry by all sorts of curious fancies. mary, jane, and florimel were serious, almost reverent in their fantastic ceremonies. though they were almost grown up, the association of these things with childish faith made the day and its events to them something between fantasy and reality.

mrs. garden watched them, participating in what they did, as far as she was able, with the keenest enjoyment and no less wonder. this curious day brought her into touch with her children’s lost childhood. she realized what clever little beings they had been, developing in their own way, set apart by their father’s theories of education. the pang with which she realized this, her pride in them and regret for the days in which she had been separated from them, days never to be recovered, showed her how far she had travelled from the old lynette devon, whose joy had been the public; how far toward lynette garden, whose increasing joy was in being her beautiful and gifted children’s mother.

310 joel bell was an amazed witness of the slumber day ceremonies. what they represented he could not imagine; why “great girls like these should carry on so” he could still less imagine. he wheeled barrowloads of straw and leaves, dug and tied and trenched, with unvarying gravity, but his pitying disapproval peeped forth.

noon afforded the first moment when conversation was possible. one of the unwritten laws of slumber day was that no talking was allowed; participants in ceremonies are not supposed to converse while they are going on. joel availed himself of this interlude.

“say, mis’ garden,” he began, “about that nus’ry you was thinkin’ of foundin’. seem’s if it couldn’t hardly be, ’thout they was a widder, or some such woman, ready to let the children be dumped with her. who’d look after ’em?”

“we were saying just that, bell,” said mrs. garden. “my daughters thought we could find such a person, but so far none has been suggested. do you know one?”

joel bell shook his head. “fact, i don’t,” he said. “i spoke to one woman, but she quick showed she thought i meant her to take mis’ bell’s place, my wife’s, you know, or else she311 meant to take it. i didn’t wait to find out which; either way my safety laid in flight, an’ i flew.”

in spite of themselves the girls burst out laughing at this.

“don’t you laugh, girls,” said joel, with deeper seriousness. “there’s been many a unfort’nate man married before this because he hadn’t the ready money, nor yet the courage to go to law to prove he had no notion of takin’ a woman who ran him down like a hunted deer. it’s a dreadful thing when a woman that’s at all set picks out some man to marry him! matrimony is seriouser, anyway, than girls like you thinks, an’ i believe it’s the dooty of older folks to try to make the younger generation sense that.”

mrs. garden could never accommodate herself to the american freedom of speech on the part of those whom she employed. “such awfully bad manners!” she said in her most english accent, when her disapproval was not more severe. now she turned toward the house. “anne must have called us, my dears,” she said. “very well, bell; we will try to find a matron for our day nursery.”

at the house anne met them. “i called,312 but you did not hear, mrs. garden,” she said. “lunch is nearly ready. jane, florimel, there is the strangest person waiting to see you. she came some twenty minutes ago, but would not let me disturb you. she would not give her name. she said she wanted to see one of the garden girls, ‘the one with red hair,’ she said, or a younger one with black hair, but the red-haired one she would rather see. she is fearfully frowsy; light hair, i truly think it is bleached, but maybe not. she is in mourning, yet she has on a good deal of queer jewellery and a white voile waist, all covered with coarse machine embroidery. she is a queer person, jane, altogether. what can she want of you?”

“i’ve no idea, anne; can’t imagine who she is,” jane began, but florimel said:

“i can! it’s miss alyssa aldine, and somebody’s died.”

“oh, florimel!” jane remonstrated. she did not like to remember that she had sought miss aldine—mrs. peter mivle—to ask advice as to her career. nevertheless, jane hastened to the library, not waiting to alter her costume, instantly sure that florimel was right, and that it was miss aldine whom she should find waiting for her.

313 florimel was right. miss aldine, quite as blowsy in her mourning as she had been in her pink wrapper, arose to meet jane as she entered, followed close by florimel.

“how are you, my dears?” she said. “i don’t suppose you remember me.”

“surely we do,” said jane, putting out her hand with a sudden cordiality. she saw that mrs. mivle looked a great deal older, and sad and worn, and, jane-like, was moved to welcome her. “surely we remember you, mrs. mivle. you were very nice to me when i was so silly as to bother you.”

“no trouble at all,” said mrs. mivle, tears springing to her eyes. “you were an awfully pretty pair to drop into a body’s room so unexpected. it does a body good to see girls like you. and now you don’t call me miss aldine, but you give me my sainted petey’s name. i suppose you saw by the papers my loss?”

“no, we haven’t seen,” said jane, feeling her way. “i noticed you were in mourning. it isn’t—you don’t mean——”

“yes, i do!” sobbed mrs. mivle. “my blessed petey took sick, and before we knew he was more’n kind of off his feed, you might say, he was past all hope—appendicitis! ain’t it314 awful? sydney fleming—you remember, his stage name, that was?—was simply great in the lead, could do anything. we acted together like we were made for it. and it’s my belief we were. things come out like that in this world, once in a while; folks sent into it to be with certain other folks, for work and pleasure. and say, we were happy, honest! petey and me got on when we was in private life just like the leading lady and her support does in the slickest plays. it’s broke me up something fierce to lose him. see, i’m wearing his ring! i won’t part with it while i can hold it, but i’m down on my luck. comp’ny burst up, couldn’t get a leading man fit to take pete’s place, i was all in; couldn’t do justice to my repertoire, we played to poor houses, manager was up against it; sorry for me, sorry pete died, but sorry for himself when he run behind. he had to shut down, and it took pretty much every cent i had to get home; we was playin’ the state of washington when the end come. so i don’t know how long i’ll be keeping poor blessed petey’s ring.”

the poor creature, kind and honest, though grotesque and slangy, pulled off her shabby glove and displayed the huge diamond, of yellowish315 cast, which jane and florimel remembered on her lost “petey’s” hand.

“oh, i’m so sorry!” murmured jane. “i’m truly sorry. not that it does you any good. what will you do?”

“my dear, that’s exactly what i’ve come to ask you,” returned mrs. mivle earnestly. “you come once to ask my advice. says i to myself, i believe i’ll go hunt up that little handsome red-haired girl, and her little beauty black-haired sister, and ask them to find me a job. i haven’t one friend outside the perfession. i’ve gotter go to work at some ordinary job. my acting days are over. not an act left in me; haven’t the heart. do you suppose i could act lady of lyons with another playing claude melnotte in petey’s place? not on your life! do you think there’d be anything for me to do here in vineclad? there often is work, and few to do it, in one-night-stand kind of towns—i beg your pardon! it’s a real nice place, but you’ve got to admit it’s small and slow! you can ask any one about me. there isn’t a thing to be said of me i wouldn’t just as lieves as not was said. i’m honest, if i do say it, and i’m good natured. pete always said any one had a cinch keeping his temper living with me. i’d do anything i could316 do; no pride left in me. all my pride was perfesh’nal, and, as i say, my acting days is over, with petey’s life. get me a job at anything, there’s a dear child! i’ll do my best, though, to tell the truth, i wouldn’t advise any one to get me to cook. petey used to say: ‘nettie,’ he’d say, ‘the quality of mercy is not strained; neither is your soup.’ oh, my petey! always like that, jokin’, and witty, and great, simply great!” peter’s widow gulped painfully. there was no doubt that her grief was profound.

“you wouldn’t care to look after children all day, would you?” asked jane. “we have a charity we are starting here. it began in a sort of play; we began it, my other sister and i, but it is going to be a real charity, and go on far and long, we hope. we’ll tell you about it. but you must have lunch with us. please excuse me a moment, while i tell my mother and sister you are here, and then we’ll have lunch. why, i forgot! florimel, please take mrs. mivle up to my room and let her cool her face and hands with fresh water. i know one doesn’t care to eat after one has been talking fast and feeling sad. you mustn’t say a word, mrs. mivle! as you told me about my visit to you: it isn’t any trouble!” jane ran away, and, as rapidly as she317 could, prepared her mother and mary for what they were to meet. mary apprehended the situation quicker, having already known of the former miss aldine. but after mrs. garden understood, she was as ready as her girls were to befriend this unfortunate one, who stood on the lowest rung of the ladder of fame, on which, and in another and higher form of dramatic art, lynette devon’s little feet had once balanced.

mrs. mivle was completely overcome by the kindness which she received. before lunch was over mrs. mivle had been offered and had accepted the post of matron of the day nursery. it was arranged that she was to return to new york, where she had left her slender belongings, and fetch them to vineclad at once. she went away immediately after lunch in the station carriage summoned for her, tearfully grateful, relieved, and nearer happy than had seemed possible to her ever to be again.

the gardens and anne watched her away, amazed at this sudden solution of a difficulty. they were not a little pleased that the day nursery was proving its right to exist, though it had been begun with light-hearted indifference, by doing a great service for a lonely woman, whose merit was so overlaid with misleading externals318 that it was hard to see what could have become of her without its refuge.

“and i know she’ll make the babies happier than almost any one else in all the world could!” said jane, as if she were answering some one, though no one had made a comment.

“she’s very good indeed, kind and honest,” said anne kennington, who was keen to judge. “i’m sure she’ll make every child that comes near her quite wild over her, when she begins singing songs to them and amusing them; you can see she’s that sort! but, my heart, mrs. garden, dear, what slang they’ll learn from her!”

“oh, no, anne, perhaps not. we’ll try to get her to talk and dress less picturesquely,” said mrs. garden, who had whole-heartedly espoused the dethroned leading lady’s cause.

the afternoon ceremonies of slumber day were resumed and carried to their end. win came home, as he had promised, to take part in the finale. he brought mark with him; they had to be told of the singular guest and her prospective office, in spite of the rule against interrupting the routine of slumber day by conversation.

joel bell listened to the tale with, literally, open mouth. “well, how little you can tell319 what’s around the corner before you turn it!” he said. “to think you’ve been the means of givin’ a sorrowful lady, an’ a lady without a way to git her bread, both comfort an’ bread an’ jam, so to speak!”

“everything is done; the slumber day ceremonies are over,” announced mary at last. “we have put the garden to sleep till another spring. now our closing rite, then for supper! mark, you may take part in it. we each in turn bid our garden sleep well till next year, and then we tell it what has been the best gift we have had this year, and ask it to make the gift grow and blossom next year. florimel first; we begin at the youngest.”

“no, chum and lucky first!” laughed florimel, and she held the cat’s, and then the dog’s, head close to the ground, under the sun dial, where this last event always took place.

“good-night, sweet garden, our best friend. my best gift has been my home. keep it and increase it another year for me,” she said in turn, for each. then when she released them, lucky ran up the lilac bush, and sat there, and chum ran around and around the grass, tail out and mouth stretched, laughing, taking it all as a frolic.

320 florimel, jane, and mary said the same thing:

“good-night, sweet garden, our best friend; rest well and waken refreshed. my best gift has been my mother. keep her for me, and increase her health and happiness next year.”

“good-night, old garden, true friend,” said win. “my best gift this year”—he hesitated—“has been hope and greater happiness. fructify both for me next year.”

mark bent over the sod.

“good-night, new-old friend, noble garden,” he said. “my best gift this year has been through the gardens—home, affection, hope. keep my gifts for me, and let them grow great another year.”

mrs. garden bowed low, her hand upon the sun dial.

“good-night, sweet garden, patient friend. my best gift was won coming back to thee. my best gift this year, and for all years, is my children. guard their health, and help me keep them, the flower of your soil, forever.”

she straightened herself and looked around. mary’s deep blue eyes, jane’s golden ones, florimel’s glowing black ones smiled at her.

“my garden blossoms,” she cried. “my best gift, truly, is that i’ve learned to be your mother!”

321 mary turned toward the house, a hand on her mother’s shoulder, the other on jane’s arm. florimel, behind them, encircled her mother with her hands on her sisters’ shoulders.

“now we are all going from our happy, put-to-bed garden into our happy, waking house! come, boys, both!” mary said.

“we’re so blessed that we can’t quite know how happy we are. isn’t that beautiful? to know we’re happier than we can know we are?” said jane.

“i wonder if we aren’t the very luckiest girls in the world?” said florimel. “i wonder if we could call our garden fairies, and ask them who were the happiest girls in the world, what they’d say?”

and from the steps, where she stood in the setting sun, came anne’s voice calling, like an answer:

“garden girls! garden girls!”