And one day, as she went by, Jasper Dale was working in his garden.
He was on his knees in a corner, setting out a bunch of roots--an unsightly little tangle of rainbow possibilities.

It was a still spring morning; the world was green with young leaves; a little wind blew down from the pines and lost itself willingly among the budding delights of the garden.

The grass opened eyes of blue violets.

The sky was high and cloudless, turquoise-blue, shading off into milkiness on the far horizons.

Birds were singing along the brook valley.