On that bright blessed shore where there's joy evermore,
There'll be SOME-thing for CHIL-DREN to do."

Patty's young existence being full to the brim of labor, this
view of heaven never in the least appealed to her and she
rendered the hymn with little sympathy. The main part of the
verse was strongly accented by jabs at the unoffending dandelion
roots, but when the chorus came she brought out the emphatic
syllables by a beat of the broken knife on the milkpan.

This rendition of a Sabbath-School classic did not meet
Waitstill's ideas of perfect propriety, but she smiled and let it
pass, planning some sort of recreation for a stolen half-hour of
the afternoon. It would have to be a walk through the pasture
into the woods to see what had grown since they went there a
fortnight ago. Patty loved people better than Nature, but failing
the one she could put up with the other, for she had a sense of
beauty and a pagan love of color. There would be pale-hued
innocence and blue and white violets in the moist places, thought
Waitstill, and they would have them in a china cup on the
supper-table. No, that would never do, for last time father had
knocked them over when he was reaching for the bread, and in a
silent protest against such foolishness got up from the table and
emptied theirs into the kitchen sink.

"There's a place for everything," he said when he came back, "and
the place for flowers is outdoors."

Then in the pine woods there would be, she was sure, Star of
Bethlehem, Solomon's Seal, the white spray of groundnuts and