girl to weed the onions, she had found her blubbering
and crying over what looked to Mrs. Motherwell nothing
more than weeds. The girl then told her she had brought
the seed with her and planted it there. She was the
craziest thing, this Polly Bragg. She went every night
to see them because they were like a "bit of home," she
said. Mrs. Motherwell would tell you just what a ridiculous
creature she was!

"I never see the beat o' that girl," Mrs. Motherwell
would say. "Them eyes of hers were always red with
homesickness, and there was no reason for it in the world,
her gettin' more wages than she ever got before, and
more'n she was earnin', as I often told her. Land! the
way that girl would sing when she had got a letter from
home, the queerest songs ye ever heard:

Down by the biller there grew a green willer,
Weeping all night with the bank for a piller.

Well, I had to stop her at last," Mrs. Motherwell would
tell you with an apologetic swallow, which showed that
even generous people have to be firm sometimes in the
discharge of unpleasant duties.

"And, mind you," Mrs. Motherwell would go on, with a
grieved air, "just as the busy time came on didn't she
up and take the fever--you never can depend on them
English girls--and when the doctor was outside there in
the buggy waitin' for her--he took her to the hospital--I