not one minute had she found in which to let the horrible dread
creep close and clutch at her throat. Helping along in the
construction of a bucket of tea-cakes, the printing of four cakes of
butter, the simmering of a large pan of horehound syrup and the
excitement of pouring it into the family bottles that Mother was
filling against a sudden night call from some crouper down or across
the Road, to say nothing of a most exciting pie, that had been
concocted entirely by herself from a jar of peaches and frilled
around with the utmost regard for its artistic appearance, to which
could be added the triumph of the long-tailed pink gown for the
daughter of young Eliza, had kept her busy and--with a quick smile
she had to admit to herself, happy. Indeed the remembrance of the
rapid disappearance of the pie and Doctor Mayberry's blush when,
after he had eaten two-thirds of it, his mother had informed him of
the authorship, brought a positive glow of pleasure to her cheeks.
Such a serious, gentle, skilful young Doctor as he was--and "a
perfect dear" she went as far as admitting to herself, this time
with a low laugh.

And as if her pondering on his virtues had had power to bring a
materialization, suddenly Doctor Tom stood in front of her on the
other side of the gate. He had come from up the Road while she had
been looking down in the other direction, and in his hand he held a
spray of purple lilacs which he had broken from a large bush that
hung over the fence from the Pratt yard into the Road and also
spread itself a yard or two into Hoover territory.

"Aren't they lovely and plumy?" she asked, as she took the bunch he
offered and laid the purple flowers against the white ones she held
in her hand. "These are so much darker than Mrs. Mayberry's purple