"No, I don't dare. I shan't join till the farm is in running order. The game is like Brand's conscience, it demands all or nothing." "You men are dreadful babies about your sports," she said. "Yes'm," I replied, "quite so. We haven't the firm-mindedness of your sex, about bridge, for instance." "I never played a game of bridge in my life," said she indignantly. "I wasn't thinking of you, but your sex," I answered. "You find a difference?" "Decidedly." "That is just what Sentimental Tommy told every woman he met." "Except Grizel--of whom it was true." I looked at her keenly, and she cast down her eyes. "A farmer shouldn't talk in literary allusions," she said softly. "Well," I laughed, "they've got me past the golf links!" We reached Twin Fires, and walked out to see if the roses were all alive, though they hadn't had time to die. Then I went into the house to work, and she gathered a few sprays of lilac, and while I was settling down at my desk she arranged them in water and stood them on the mantels, humming to herself. Then she turned to go. "Don't go," I cried. She looked at me with a little smile, as if of query. "It's been such a nice day," I added, "and it's so pleasant to feel you here in the house. Please strum something while I work." "For ten minutes," she replied, sitting down at the piano. "Then I must work, too--horrid letters." She rose presently, while I was scarce aware of it, and slipped out. I worked on, in silence save for the talk of the painters putting aside their brushes after the day's work. But I could smell the lilacs she had left, and the scent of them seemed like the wraith of her presence in the sunny room. Chapter XIII THE ADVENT OF THE PILLIGS The next day the painters left for good. Hard Cider had completed his tasks, Mike had no further need for his son Joe till haying time, and I no longer had an excuse for putting off my departure from Bert's and my embarkation upon the dubious seas of housekeeping with Mrs. Pillig at the wheel and son Peter as cabin boy. So I sent word to Mrs. Pillig to be ready to come the next morning, asked Mrs. Bert to order for me the necessary stock of groceries from the village, and gave myself up to the joys of transplanting. It was a cloudy day, with rain threatening, so that Mike assured me I could not find a better time. Miss Goodwin worked by my side, her task consisting of a careful perusal of the seed catalogue and a planting table. What colour were the flowers? How far apart should the plants be set? How tall did they grow? My ignorance was as profound as hers. But perhaps that added to the pleasure. It did to mine, at any rate. I was experimenting with the unknown. I've set many a seedling since and needed no table to tell me how, but I have never recaptured quite the glee of that soft, cloudy June morning, when my shiny new trowel transferred unknown plants to the flats on the wheelbarrow, and a voice beside me read: