message she was going to bring Mrs. Landis. Then she replaced the
rhubarb parasol over her head, picked up the basket, and went down the
country road to the Landis farm.

"It's good Landis's don't live far from our place," she thought. "My
parasol's wiltin'."

Like the majority of houses in the Crow Hill section of country, the
Landis house was set in a frame of green trees and old-fashioned flower
gardens. It flaunted in the face of the passer-by an old-time front
yard. The wide brick walk that led straight from the gate to the big
front porch was edged on both sides with a row of bricks placed corners
up. On either side of the walk were bushes, long since placed without
the discriminating eye of a landscape gardener but holding in their
very randomness a charm unrivaled by any precise planting. Mock-orange
bushes and lilacs towered above the low deutzias, while masses of
zinnias, petunias, four-o'clocks, and a score of other old-fashioned
posies crowded against each other in the long beds that edged the walks
and in the smaller round beds that were dotted here and there in the
grass. Jaded motorists from the city drove their cars slowly past the
glory of the Landis riot of blossoms.

As Amanda neared the place she looked ruefully at her knot of wild
flowers. "She's got so many pretty ones," she thought. "But, ach, I
guess she'll like these here, too, long as they're a present."

Two of the Landis children ran to greet Amanda as she opened the gate
and entered the yard.

"I'll lay my parasol by the gate," she said. "Where's your mom?"