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THIS STORY IS TOLD BY

THE FRENCHMAN

AND IS CALLED

MY BALLOON HUNT

The next morning, after breakfast, the Mistress of the House and John Gayther were walking through the garden together, for her quick eye had detected much that needed attention. Some things she had already decided upon, but there were others in which she thought it best to ask John’s advice. They did not always agree; in fact, they were seldom in exact accord: but both were sensible, and he reasoned that, as mistress, she ought to do as she pleased; and she reasoned that, as he had learned the business and she had not, it was just to him and to herself that he should, on many points, be allowed his own way.

The orchard was really a continuation of the lower terrace of the garden, but the Mistress had not been there for some time. “A great many pears, John,” she commented as they strolled under the trees; “a fair show of apples: but there are no plums at all.”

“Plums have their seasons,” said John, sententiously. “They are not always falling in one’s way; and these are choice plums and don’t come promiscuous–sorter scattered like.”

“I wonder if John means that for philosophy,” thought the Mistress. Then aloud: “My daughter brought me a luscious one yesterday, and, really, it looks as if she had gathered the only one.”

“Bless her heart!” said John, fervently, “I hope she’s goin’ to pick them up all along the way she goes.”

“That is too much to hope for any one, John,” said the Mistress, as they turned to go up into the garden; but in her heart she had the very same hope.

They walked through two terraces filled with luxuriant vegetables and bordered by small fruits, now out of season; then on to the third terrace, bordered by currant-bushes, beautiful now to look upon, hung as they were with a profusion of red tassels. And here there came to them an almost overpowering fragrance; for on the terrace above were great beds of lilies, now in their glory–lilies from many climes, lilies of many hues: great white spikes, small pink clusters, spotted, striped, variegated, white with borders of all colors, even black (or purple so dark it looked black), all standing proudly in the sunshine, and sending to heaven their incense of gratitude.

It was a gorgeous sight, and the two looked at it with delight and a good deal of pride, for it was the design and the handiwork of both.

Then they saw, behind all this glory, a group of people disposed in various comfortable positions about the little summer-house on the upper terrace, where the view was finest.

There was the Master of the House in the big garden-chair; there was the Frenchman, seated on a low grassy knoll; there was the Daughter of the House on the bench she liked; and beside her was the Next Neighbor, who was an intimate friend of the Daughter of the House, and, therefore, a frequent visitor. The nearest house was not in sight, but it could be reached in a moderate walk. Its mistress was a young married woman, very pretty to look at and of a lively turn of mind. She waved her hand to the Mistress, while the Master called out: “Come up here, you two! We are waiting for you.” When the two complied with the command, the Master continued: “Now make yourselves comfortable and listen to a story our guest has promised us.”

The Mistress of the House willingly took the rustic chair the Frenchman brought forward, but John Gayther had no wish to hear the Frenchman’s story. He had no fancy for the man, and he did not believe he would fancy his story. “Excuse me,” he said to the Master of the House, “but I see that boy Jacob coming through the gate, and I must go with him to weed the melon-bed.”