nted to speak to
you about this border. You must not use up so many geraniums and
calceolarias here. I don't mind the foliage plants, but the others cost
too much, and can not be made use of to any profit in a border of this
kind."

"You can't make a ribbon, what's worthy to be called a ribbon, with
foliage plants," gruffly retorted the old gardener. "Master would be
glad to see you in the house, Miss Frances, and yer's a letter what
carrier has just brought."

"Post at this hour?" responded Frances, a little eagerness and interest
lighting up her face; "that is unusual, and a letter in the middle of
the day is quite a treat. Well, Watkins, I will go to my father now, and
see you at six o'clock in the kitchen garden about the cabbages and
peas."

"As you please, Miss Frances; the wegitables won't be much growed since
you looked at them yester-night, but I'm your sarvint, miss. Carrier
called at the post-office and brought two letters: one for you, and
t'other for master. I'm glad you're pleased to get 'em, Miss Frances."

Watkins's back was a good deal bent; he certainly felt the heat of the
sun, and was glad to hobble off into the shade.

"Fuss is no word for her," he said; "though she's a good gel, and means
well--werry well."

After the old gardener had left her, Frances stood quite still; the sun
beat upon her slight figure, upon her rippling, abundant dark-brown
hair, and lighted up a face which was a little hard, a tiny bit soured,
and scarcely young enough to belong to so slender and lithe a figure.
The eyes, however, now were full of interest, and the lips melted into
very soft curves as Frances turned her letter round, examined the
postmarks, looked with interest at the seal, and studied the
handwriting. Her careful perusal of the outside of the letter revealed
at a glance how few she got, and how such a comparatively uninteresting
event in most lives was regarded by her.

"This letter will keep," she said to herself, slipping it into her
pocket. "I will hear what father has to tell me first. It is a great
treat to have an unopened letter to look forward to. I wonder where this
is from. Who can want to write to me from Australia? If Philip were
alive--" Here she paused and sighed. "In the first place, I heard of his
death three years ago; in the second, being alive, why should he write?
It is ten years since we met."

Her face, which was a very bright and practical one, notwithstanding
those few hard