"Peter did not mean it that way. It's only his manner," persisted his mother. "I think he was really hurt about it. I suppose you know that he is going to give all his money for founding a school and club for his employees. He talks of nothing else." "I can hear him, mother." But there Peter and his eccentricities and philanthropic projects vanished from mind at sight of an expense of gingham apron filling the kitchen doorway and covering the ample form of Jane, grinning and beneficent, who, as she herself said, was no skittish young thing who didn't know a good place when she had it, which accounted for the Sanfords having retained their general houseworker. Diplomacy and gratitude demanded that homage be paid to Jane; and affection which began with childhood greeted Patrick, the gardener, leaning on his hoe and sucking in his pipe, as Phil had seen him a thousand times. Unchanged the garden with its bounteous colour, its perfume, and green and budding and flowering promise of plenty in that little world walled in by larches from the neighbours on either side in the village world in turn walled in by the hills, gone golden in high lights and dark in shadows in the recesses of the woods with the lowering slant of the sun's rays. "There is no place like it," said Phil. "My roots are in this soil as deep as the elms." Unchanged Patrick, whose articulation was sufficient indication without explanation that he had not yet brought himself to wear store teeth except at funerals and on Sundays, or on any other occasion when he wore a starched collar. "Strawberries are ripe," said Jane. "Do you still like strawberry shortcake, Phillie?" "M-m-m--yes!" "That sounds natural. It's the way you used to say it when you was little. Lord, but you did have an appetite down to your soles! Now, see here----" Jane squared herself, eyeing him very sternly. "Yes, Jane?" "Do you think that your mother can make better strawberry shortcake than me?" "Jane, the excellence of your puddings is known far beyond this valley; your biscuits would melt in the mouth of a polar explorer, and your bisque of tomato is surpassed only by your----" Phil used to talk to her in this way when he was home on holidays, at once pleasing and convincing her that he was really getting a college education; but she was not to be put off by any verbal trickery this time. "Speak out, sir!" she insisted. "Then, mother can." "Good!" said Jane. "I wouldn't think much of any man who didn't think his mother could make better strawberry shortcake than any hired girl that ever lived. Always stand up for your own flesh and blood, I say, even if your mother can't make better strawberry shortcake 'n me--which in my opinion she can't."