About the chutes which let grain into the stalls, mice were known to linger. Once I had caught one in my hands, a feat which I instantly regretted, for the mouse bit my finger and made his escape in short order. Since that time the pursuit of the common drab mouse had been considered a pastime not without the charm of danger and the risk of bloodshed. But now the mention of mice only brought my thoughts back--as if they needed bringing!--to the subject that possessed us both. "Do you think you drove that old cat away?" I asked abruptly. Ed understood immediately; I did not need to specify the cat. "I dunno," he said; "she may be foolin' round now. P'r'aps we ought to go and see." "Let's," I replied quickly. We crossed the street, cut across the Toppans' back yard, and then, by a certain fence route, well understood and prescribed for all important occasions, entered Auntie Merrill's garden. A cat slunk off between the box hedges, and a robin flew hurriedly from the fence to the apple tree where he had his nest of mud and dried grass. He uttered three or four excited notes as he flew. The sunlight of a morning in late June fell in patches on the paths, the hedges, and the flower beds. The rose-bushes dropped their petals, and the syringa moved in the breeze. That was a garden! It had old-fashioned flowers--snapdragons, portulacas (now in full blaze in the sun), and hollyhocks--in the days before old-fashioned flowers became new-fashioned again. Orioles hunted their food in the fruit trees to carry it back to their hanging nests in the elms that shaded the street near by. It was firefly-haunted at night, and we used to run up and down the paths and try to catch the fireflies in our hats. It was full of long, mysterious vistas, overgrown shrubs breaking in on the paths, and valuable hiding-places. Plums grew there, and pears and cherries and peaches. When, on rare occasions, Auntie Merrill walked slowly down the path, she appeared to be totally unaware that Indians, highway robbers, pirates, cowboys, spies, scouts, and other ruffians were dogging her footsteps from bush to bush. We always thought it best to keep an eye on her. It is a perfectly safe place to-day. Auntie Merrill is dead; the shrubs are trimmed, the hedges cut down, the paths covered with asphalt, and the whole garden a dismal spectacle of precision, order, and expensive simplicity. But on the morning when we returned to look after our buried rose-leaves, no one had dreamed of these wretched improvements. Keeping well down below the hedge, we reached the lilies-of-the-valley without encountering any opposition. The place of burial was inspected and the earth searched for tracks. None appeared. Then we stood over the spot and meditated. A lilac bush sheltered us from inquisitive persons in the house. Finally Ed Mason spoke. "I wonder how they're gettin' on," he said. "I wonder!" said I.