richest bit of land at The Briers or in Benton County. It will bring
some posies for you, Bettykin."

"I'm not going to plant just flowers in it, Sam," I answered in a tone
that admitted of no discussion, "Do you remember the part of
grandmother's book that told what she made off of the southern half-acre
of hers the year everything failed? I've got it right here, and I'm
going to follow it," and as I spoke I hugged the ancestral garden to my
breast with one arm, while I held the old grass basket I had made for
Sam in my infancy in the other hand, with all my town seeds in it.

"Oh, there's plenty of garden-land all over the place, Betty. Come on
and sow the posies."

"There's not plenty of onion and beet and lettuce and okra and tomato
and celery land right at the well, Sam, that Byrd and I can carry water
from," I answered, positively. "Is this land mine or yours?"

"Yours."

"Wait. I forgot!" I exclaimed in sudden, embarrassed consternation. "Are
you renting this land to me, Sam?"

"Renting it to you, Betty?" For a second Sam's eyes blazed in a way I
hadn't seen since the time I didn't want to take all of the one fish we
caught after a hot day's fishing out at Little Harpeth at our tenth and
fourteenth years. Then, suddenly, a queer expression came up and drowned
the anger in his eyes and twitched at the comers of his mouth until I
recognized it as humor.