and others that I did not know. We set to work with a will. We
used all our tools--spades, forks, hoes, and rakes--and Dora worked
with the trowel, sitting down, because her foot was hurt. We
cleared the weedy patch beautifully, scraping off all the nasty
weeds and leaving the nice clean brown dirt. We worked as hard as
ever we could. And we were happy, because it was unselfish toil,
and no one thought then of putting it in the Book of Golden Deeds,
where we had agreed to write down our virtuous actions and the good
doings of each other, when we happen to notice them.

We had just done, and we were looking at the beautiful production
of our honest labour, when the cottage door burst open, and the
soldier's widowed mother came out like a wild tornado, and her eyes
looked like upas trees--death to the beholder.

'You wicked, meddlesome, nasty children!' she said, ain't you got
enough of your own good ground to runch up and spoil, but you must
come into MY little lot?'

Some of us were deeply alarmed, but we stood firm.

'We have only been weeding your garden,' Dora said; 'we wanted to
do something to help you.'

'Dratted little busybodies,' she said. It was indeed hard, but
everyone in Kent says 'dratted' when they are cross. 'It's my
turnips,' she went on, 'you've hoed up, and my cabbages. My
turnips that my boy sowed afore he went. There, get along with you
do, afore I come at you with my broom-handle.'