Animal House. There were a good many puddles, for it had rained the
day before. To-day the clouds had gathered up behind the hills into
white domes, but the sky was that faint April blue that dims easily
into warm mists. There was the smell of earth, the fainter scent of
unopened buds, and from the garden borders of the Stuffed Animal House
came the pungent odor of box.

Helena Richie, standing by a bed of crown-imperials, bareheaded, a
trowel in her gloved hand, her smooth cheek flushed with the unwonted
exertion of planting seeds, caught the exquisite breath of the box,
and sighed; then, listlessly, she turned to walk back towards the
house. Before she reached it the gate clicked and Dr. King came up the
path. She saw him and looked hurriedly about, as if seeking a way of
escape, but it was too late.

"Gardening?" he called to her.

"Yes," she said, and her smile like reluctant sunshine did not betray
to the doctor that he was not welcome.

"Don't work too hard," he cautioned her. It seemed to William King,
looking at her with wondering admiration, that she was too delicate a
creature to handle a trowel. There was a certain soft indolence in the
way she moved that was a delight to his eye. It occurred to him that
he would ask his Martha why she didn't wear gardening-gloves. Mrs.
Richie wore them, and as she pulled one off he saw how soft and white
her hand was....

"How's the patient?" he asked.