"No," cried John, "and what does it matter?" He had a dull feeling of
resentment, of loss, of consciousness of new barriers and of distance
from the old comrade.

Their way led across the garden, which was showing signs of feeling the
chilly nights of the close of summer in this upland, where the seasons
sometimes change abruptly.

"The garden has missed Aunt Ann," said Leila. "Uncle Jim looks at it from
the porch, says 'How pretty!' and expects to see roses on his table every
day. I do believe he considers a garden as merely a kind of flower-farm."

"Aunt Ann's garden interests her the way Westways does. There are sick
flowers and weeds like human weeds, and bugs and diseases that need a
flower-doctor, and flowers that are morbid or ill-humoured. That is not
my wisdom, Leila, it is Mr. Rivers's."

"No, John, it isn't at all like you."

"Aunt Ann didn't like it, and yet I think he meant it to be a compliment,
for he really considers Aunt Ann a model of what a woman ought to be."

"I know that pretty well," said Leila. "When I used to lose my temper
over that horrid algebra, I was told to consider how Aunt Ann kept her
temper no matter what happened, as if that had anything to do with
algebra and equations. If he had seen her when she talked to George Grey
about Josiah, he would have known Aunt Ann better. I was proud of her."

"Aunt Ann angry!" said John. "I should have liked to have seen that. Poor