"Hullo, Evie, here's our wounded hero! Mr. Hastings--Miss
Howard."

Miss Howard shook hands with a hearty, almost painful, grip. I
had an impression of very blue eyes in a sunburnt face. She was
a pleasant-looking woman of about forty, with a deep voice,
almost manly in its stentorian tones, and had a large sensible
square body, with feet to match--these last encased in good thick
boots. Her conversation, I soon found, was couched in the
telegraphic style.

"Weeds grow like house afire. Can't keep even with 'em. Shall
press you in. Better be careful."

"I'm sure I shall be only too delighted to make myself useful," I
responded.

"Don't say it. Never does. Wish you hadn't later."

"You're a cynic, Evie," said John, laughing. "Where's tea
to-day--inside or out?"

"Out. Too fine a day to be cooped up in the house."

"Come on then, you've done enough gardening for to-day. 'The
labourer is worthy of his hire', you know. Come and be
refreshed."

"Well," said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, "I'm
inclined to agree with you."