h the constant catching of these rather
interfered with the wellbeing of the struggling lily. Alwyn had built a
miniature house in her plot out of old bricks and stones, and had
thatched it neatly with straw. She had made a gravel path up to the
front door, and had sown grass to represent lawns, and cut a round
flower bed in the middle of each. Joan's garden was subject to violent
changes. Last year it had been a potato patch, but as she dug up those
useful vegetables every day to see how they were sprouting, it was not
surprising that they refused to make much growth. Lately she had
converted the whole into a dolls' cemetery, and, with Cyril's aid,
keenly enjoyed conducting the funerals of various headless favourites,
waxing so enthusiastic over the obsequies that she even buried several
quite respectable wax babies, though, regretting their loss afterwards,
she was eventually forced to dig them up again. She put tombstones at
the heads of the graves, made of slates from the roof of a tumble-down
shed, and carefully wrote names, dates, and epitaphs upon them in slate
pencil, being greatly distressed when the inscriptions were invariably
obliterated by every fresh shower of rain.

Cyril had sown the letters of his name in mustard and cress, which were
just coming up fresh and green, and would soon be ready to cut. He also
had some bulbs under pieces of glass in a corner which he called his
hothouse. Ralph and Leonard were so busy at school that their gardens
appeared to be mostly cared for by Rhoda, who had a very ambitious
scheme for her own.

"I want to make a floral clock," she explained. "You see, I've dug a
round face and marked it out into twelve parts, and I'm going to put
each figure in different-coloured flowers. Then I thought if I could fix
a pole in the middle it ought to cast a shadow, and tell the time like a
sundial. I've made it north, south, east, and west by my compass, and
it will be most delightful if I can only get it to work."

Rhoda had almost as much to show Lindsay in the house as out-of-doors.
There was her bedroom, a tiny sanctum where she kept all her special
treasures out of the way of the children's meddlesome fingers. It was a
very old-fashioned little room, with a low, black-beamed ceiling, and a
window that opened on to a small balcony, where she could grow
nasturtiums and other trailing plants in pots. The walls were covered
with pictures in home-made frames, wonderful arrangements of