e is enough to set you
agog!"

But this was not their first fencing match, and Olivia had learned to
parry.

"I thought you believed in people being open-minded," she ventured
demurely.

"And so I do; but not so open-minded that for every new idea that
comes in an old one goes out."

"Oh, the sun-dial hasn't got away yet," she laughed, springing to her
feet and going over to the court-end of the garden, where she placed
herself in the exact centre of the converging rose-beds.

"There!" she cried; "don't you see how my white gown lights up the
whole place? It's just the high light that it needs."

And so it was: a fact of which no one was better aware than the
professor. As he, too, rose and sauntered toward the house he could
not deny that Olivia's ideas were usually good. The only trouble was
that she had too many of them; and here was the kernel of truth that
gave substance to his whimsical argument. The beauty of the garden was
not lost upon him, nor yet the skill and industry of the young
gardener. But more important than either was the advantage to the
girl's health. Olivia was sound as a nut; of course she was! There
could be no doubt of that. But--so had her mother seemed, until that
fatal winter ten years ago. He did not fear for Olivia; why should he?
Only--well, this out-of-door life was a capital thing for anybody. No,
he could not have her tire of her garden.

At the foot of the veranda steps Dr. Page paused and glanced again at
his daughter. She had left the rose-beds and was already intent upon
her work, pulling seeds from the hollyhocks over yonder. She made a
pretty picture in her white gown, standing shoulder-high among the
brown stalks, her slender fingers deftly gleaning from such as showed
no rust. The child was really very persistent about her gardening; she
had fairly earned an indulgence. Perhaps, after all, she might be
trusted. He moved a few steps toward her.

"Olivia," he said,--and the first word betrayed his relenting,--"Olivia,
your sun-dial scheme is not such a bad idea. I should rather like that
white-petticoat effect myself. Supposing we say that if between now and
next June you don't think of anything you want more, we'll have it."

"Oh, you blessed angel! What could I want more?"

"Time will show," the blessed angel replied, retracing his steps
toward the house--unaided by angelic wings!

"Yes," Olivia called confidently. "It's the sun-dial that time will
show, and after