But if in the pride of his heart, his Mary, he should find no better than a crooked furrow, then truly the labor of his latter days would be the dull round of a mill horse.
Now Mary, in total ignorance of that council held concerning her, and even of her mother's bad suspicions, chanced to come in at the front porch door soon after her father set off to his meadows by way of the back yard.

Having been hard at work among her flowers, she was come to get a cupful of milk for herself, and the cheery content and general goodwill encouraged by the gardener's gentle craft were smiling on her rosy lips and sparkling in her eyes.

Her dress was as plain as plain could be--a lavender twill cut and fitted by herself--and there was not an ornament about her that came from any other hand than Nature's.

But simple grace of movement and light elegance of figure, fair curves of gentle face and loving kindness of expression, gladdened with the hope of youth--what did these want with smart dresses, golden brooches, and two guineas?
Her mother almost thought of this when she called Mary into the little parlor.

And the two guineas lay upon the table.
"Mary, can you spare a little time to talk with me?
You seem wonderfully busy, as usual." "Mother, will you never make allowance for my flowers?
They depend upon the weather, and they must have things accordingly." "Very well; let them think about what they want next, while you sit down a while and talk with me." The girl was vexed; for to listen to a lecture, already manifest in her mother's eyes, was a far less agreeable job than gardening.