“Going to plant 'em in our garden.” Hale had got a theory from a garden-book that the humble burdock, pig-weed and other lowly plants were good for ornamental effect, and he wanted to experiment, but June gave a shrill whoop and fell to scornful laughter. Then she snatched the weeds from him and threw them over the fence. “Why, June!” “Not in MY garden. Them's stagger-weeds--they kill cows,” and she went off again. “I reckon you better c-consult me 'bout weeds next time. I don't know much 'bout flowers, but I've knowed all my life 'bout WEEDS.” She laid so much emphasis on the word that Hale wondered for the moment if her words had a deeper meaning--but she went on: “Ever' spring I have to watch the cows fer two weeks to keep 'em from eatin'--those weeds.” Her self-corrections were always made gravely now, and Hale consciously ignored them except when he had something to tell her that she ought to know. Everything, it seemed, she wanted to know. “Do they really kill cows?” June snapped her fingers: “Like that. But you just come on here,” she added with pretty imperiousness. “I want to axe--ask you some things--what's that?” “Scarlet sage.” “Scarlet sage,” repeated June. “An' that?” “Nasturtium, and that's Oriental grass.” “Nas-tur-tium, Oriental. An' what's that vine?” “That comes from North Africa--they call it 'matrimonial vine.'” “Whut fer?” asked June quickly. “Because it clings so.” Hale smiled, but June saw none of his humour--the married people she knew clung till the finger of death unclasped them. She pointed to a bunch of tall tropical-looking plants with great spreading leaves and big green-white stalks. “They're called Palmae Christi.” “Whut?” “That's Latin. It means 'Hands of Christ,'” said Hale with reverence. “You see how the leaves are spread out--don't they look like hands?' “Not much,” said June frankly. “What's Latin?” “Oh, that's a dead language that some people used a long, long time ago.” “What do folks use it nowadays fer? Why don't they just say 'Hands o' Christ'?” “I don't know,” he said helplessly, “but maybe you'll study Latin some of these days.” June shook her head. “Gettin' YOUR language is a big enough job fer me,” she said with such quaint seriousness that Hale could not laugh. She looked up suddenly. “You been a long time git--gettin' over here.” “Yes, and now you want to send me home before sundown.” “I'm afeer--I'm afraid for you. Have you got a gun?” Hale tapped his breast-pocket. “Always. What are you afraid of?” “The Falins.” She clenched her hands. “I'd like to SEE one o' them Falins tech ye,” she added fiercely, and then she gave a quick look at the sun. “You better go now, Jack. I'm afraid fer you. Where's your horse?” Hale waved his hand. “Down there. All right, little girl,” he said. “I ought to go, anyway.” And, to humour her, he started for the gate. There he bent to kiss her, but she drew back.