"It's the rhubarb-pot," Eleanor repeated. "You know Clement is always having new fads every holidays, and he can't bear his things being disturbed whilst he's at school. But how can I help it if I'm at school too?" "Of course you can't," said I, gladly seizing upon the only point in her story that I could understand, to express my sympathy. "And he got one of the rhubarb-pots last holidays," Eleanor continued. "It was rather broken, and Thomas gave in to his having it then, so it's very mean of him to have moved it now, and I shall tell him so. And Clement painted church windows on it, and stuck it over a plant of ivy at the top of the garden. He thought it would force the ivy, and he expected it would grow big by the time he came home. He wanted it to hang over the top, and look like a ruin. Oh, he will be so vexed!" The ivy plant was alive, though the "ruin" had been removed by the sacrilegious hands of Thomas. I suggested that we should build a ruin of stones, and train the ivy over that, which idea was well received by Eleanor; the more so that a broken wall at the top of the croft supplied materials, and Stonehenge suggested itself as an easy, and certainly respectable, model. Meanwhile we decided to "do the weeding first," as being the least agreeable business, and so set to work; I in a leisurely manner, befitting the heat of the day, and Eleanor with her usual energy. She toiled without a pause, and accomplished about treble the result of my labours. After we had worked for a long time, she sat up, pressing her hand to her forehead. "My head quite aches, Margery, and I'm so giddy. It's very odd; gardening never made me so before I went away." "You work so at it," said I, "you may well be tired. What makes you work so at things?" "I don't know," said Eleanor, laughing. "Cook says I do foy at things so. But when one once begins, you know----" "What's _foy_?" I interrupted. "Cook says you foy--what does she mean?" "Oh, to foy at anything is to slave--to work hard at it. At least, not merely hard-working, but to go at it very hotly, almost foolishly; in fact, to foy at it, you know. Clement foys at things too. And then he gets tired and cross; and so do I, often. What o'clock is it, Margery?" I pulled out my souvenir watch and answered, "Just eleven." "We ought to have some 'drinkings,' we've worked so hard," said Eleanor, laughing again. "Haymakers, and people like that, always have drinkings at eleven, you know, and dinner at one, and tea at four or five, and supper at eight. Ah! there goes Thomas. Thomas!" Thomas came up, and Eleanor (discreetly postponing the subject of the rhubarb-pot for the present) sent a pleading message to cook, which resulted in her sending us two bottles of ginger-beer and several slices of thick bread-and-butter. The dear boys, who had been very sensibly snoozing in the shade, divined by some instinct the arrival of our lunch-basket, and were kind enough to share the bread-and-butter with us.