The friendly little girl hitched herself up on the bench beside the woman, her feet dangling almost a foot from the ground. "So there is no baby at your house," remarked the pale lady, bending again over her own little one. "No, ma'am. There's just Princey and me and my papa and mamma, and sometimes Aunty Rose Kennedy, who comes to our house from Sunrise Cove and the Corners and stays with us. She's just gone back home now to make her garden. She says she cert'nly would have a conniption fit if she didn't dig in the dirt in the spring. She says it's in her blood, you know. But she doesn't take anything for it like _I_ have to when it comes spring. My mamma says a spring tonic's quite nec'sary." "I see," said the pale lady. "It must be nice to have a garden. But one cannot have a garden in the city." "Oh, some folks can!" cried the child, her eyes shining. "I'm 'quainted with a very nice gentleman here in the park--his name is Mr. M'Cooey--and he's got a lovely big garden up yonder," she added, pointing to the heights. "There's going to be jonquils, and crocuses, and hy'cinths in it. He told me so; and he ought to know, for he buried their feet in the ground last fall. I saw him bury 'em. Princey wanted to dig 'em up; he has always to be on his leash up in _that_ part of the park. "Mr. M'Cooey's awful glad to work in the garden again, now it's come spring. In the winter he has to go around with a bag and spear papers with a stick--_you_ know, papers and peanut bags where folks have been feeding the squirrels. That's quite int'resting work, too. Mr. M'Cooey let me try it once, and I speared a lot of papers for him." "I think you must make many friends, little girl," said the pale lady--was it said wistfully? "Do you come to the park often?" "Oh, yes, ma'am! But lots of times we come very early in the morning, when other folks aren't up. My papa and Princey and I. You see, my papa gets home from his paper awful early, and sometimes when it's pleasant I get up and we take a walk while mamma gets breakfast. "That's how I come to know Mr. M'Cooey and the policeman who lets Princey run without his leash," the little girl proceeded. "_He's_ a very nice man, too. His name is Mr. Lonergan, and he's got ten children at home. And what do you s'pose? He says he wouldn't sell _one_ of them for a million dollars, but he wouldn't give ten cents for another baby!" The child's laugh chimed out again. Even the pale lady must smile in response. The baby crowed and pulled at the ears of the mongrel dog. But the lengthening shadows warned the woman of the time. She shook out the baby's blanket and wrapped his feet and limbs in it, laying the little man over her shoulder as she rose. "I must take him home, my dear," she said to the little girl, who also climbed down from the bench. "Do you go this way, too?"