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Nancy laughed, a mellow gurgle that rippled through the garden like a brook.

“Oh, Louisa, I can shock you yet. That was just how you used to say ‘Nancy’ long ago, as if I’d broken all the commandments at once.”

“You do say such queer things,” protested Louisa, “and half the time I don’t know what you mean.”

“Bless you, dear coz, half the time I don’t myself. Perhaps the joy of coming back to the old spot has slightly turned my brain, I’ve found my lost girlhood here. I’m NOT thirty-eight in this garden–it is a flat impossibility. I’m sweet eighteen, with a waist line two inches smaller. Look, the sun is just setting. I see he has still his old trick of throwing his last beams over the Wright farmhouse. By the way, Louisa, is Peter Wright still living there?”

“Yes.” Louisa threw a sudden interested glance at the apparently placid Nancy.

“Married, I suppose, with half a dozen children?” said Nancy indifferently, pulling up some more sprigs of mint and pinning them on her breast. Perhaps the exertion of leaning over to do it flushed her face. There was more than the Rogerson colour in it, anyhow, and Louisa, slow though her mental processes might be in some respects, thought she understood the meaning of a blush as well as the next one. All the instinct of the matchmaker flamed up in her.

“Indeed he isn’t,” she said promptly. “Peter Wright has never married. He has been faithful to your memory, Nancy.”

“Ugh! You make me feel as if I were buried up there in the Avonlea cemetery and had a monument over me with a weeping willow carved on it,” shivered Nancy. “When it is said that a man has been faithful to a woman’s memory it generally means that he couldn’t get anyone else to take him.”

“That isn’t the case with Peter,” protested Louisa. “He is a good match, and many a woman would have been glad to take him, and would yet. He’s only forty-three. But he’s never taken the slightest interest in anyone since you threw him over, Nancy.”

“But I didn’t. He threw me over,” said Nancy, plaintively, looking afar over the low-lying fields and a feathery young spruce valley to the white buildings of the Wright farm, glowing rosily in the sunset light when all the rest of Avonlea was scarfing itself in shadows. There was laughter in her eyes. Louisa could not pierce beneath that laughter to find if there were anything under it.

“Fudge!” said Louisa. “What on earth did you and Peter quarrel about?” she added, curiously.

“I’ve often wondered,” parried Nancy.

“And you’ve never seen him since?” reflected Louisa.

“No. Has he changed much?”

“Well, some. He is gray and kind of tired-looking. But it isn’t to be wondered at–living the life he does. He hasn’t had a housekeeper for two years–not since his old aunt died. He just lives there alone and cooks his own meals. I’ve never been in the house, but folks say the disorder is something awful.”

“Yes, I shouldn’t think Peter was cut out for a tidy housekeeper,” said Nancy lightly, dragging up more mint. “Just think, Louisa, if it hadn’t been for that old quarrel I might be Mrs. Peter Wright at this very moment, mother to the aforesaid supposed half dozen, and vexing my soul over Peter’s meals and socks and cows.”

“I guess you are better off as you are,” said Louisa.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Nancy looked up at the white house on the hill again. “I have an awfully good time out of life, but it doesn’t seem to satisfy, somehow. To be candid–and oh, Louisa, candour is a rare thing among women when it comes to talking of the men–I believe I’d rather be cooking Peter’s meals and dusting his house. I wouldn’t mind his bad grammar now. I’ve learned one or two valuable little things out yonder, and one is that it doesn’t matter if a man’s grammar is askew, so long as he doesn’t swear at you. By the way, is Peter as ungrammatical as ever?”