ut a pause, and accomplished about treble the result of my
labours. After we had worked for a long time, she sat up, pressing her
hand to her forehead.

"My head quite aches, Margery, and I'm so giddy. It's very odd;
gardening never made me so before I went away."

"You work so at it," said I, "you may well be tired. What makes you work
so at things?"

"I don't know," said Eleanor, laughing. "Cook says I do foy at things
so. But when one once begins, you know----"

"What's _foy_?" I interrupted. "Cook says you foy--what does she mean?"

"Oh, to foy at anything is to slave--to work hard at it. At least, not
merely hard-working, but to go at it very hotly, almost foolishly; in
fact, to foy at it, you know. Clement foys at things too. And then he
gets tired and cross; and so do I, often. What o'clock is it, Margery?"

I pulled out my souvenir watch and answered, "Just eleven."

"We ought to have some 'drinkings,' we've worked so hard," said Eleanor,
laughing again. "Haymakers, and people like that, always have drinkings
at eleven, you know, and dinner at one, and tea at four or five, and
supper at eight. Ah! there goes Thomas. Thomas!"

Thomas came up, and Eleanor (discreetly postponing the subject of the
rhubarb-pot for the present) sent a pleading message to cook, which
resulted in her sending us two bottles of ginger-beer and several slices
of thick bread-and-butter. The dear boys, who had been very sensibly
snoozing in the shade, divined by some instinct the arrival of our
lunch-basket, and were kind enough to share the bread-and-butter with
us.

"Drinkings" over, we set to work again.

I was surprised to observe that there were four box-edged beds, but as
Eleanor said nothing about it, I made no remark. Perhaps it belonged to
some dead brother or sister.

As the weeds were cleared away, one plant after another became
apparent. I called Eleanor's attention to all that I found, and she
seemed to welcome them as old friends.

"Oh, that's the grey primrose; I'm so glad! And there are Jack's
hepaticas; they look like old rubbish. Don't dig deep into Jack's
garden, please, for he's always getting plants and bulbs given him by
people in the village, and he sticks everything in, so his garden really
is crammed full; and you're sure to dig into tulips, or crocuses, or
lilies, or something valuable."

"Doesn't Clement get things given him?" said I.

"Oh, he has plenty of plants," said Eleanor, "but then he's al