treasure—first instalment, to be continued in our next. No, don't look vacant, Luce darling. I'm not insane, and I will tell the truth as soon as I get my breath. Put away that pencil, burn that paper. No more lists! I got that money by selling flowers out of the garden. We will get our living by selling flowers out of the garden. Ourselves. To people who go by and admire. No sending our flowers to market to be sold all crushed and bruised and disheartened. 'Fresh flowers sold here'—that's what's going on the board. No, 'Fresh cut flowers sold here.' I shall paint the board to-morrow. Why, the board for the gate, of course, to show the world what we sell. Let's count the money. I make it fifteen and eight pence."
"It is fifteen and ninepence halfpenny," said Lucilla, and added slowly, "it's quite a good idea, Jane."
"Out with it," said Jane, adjusting the little silver tower of her eleven sixpences. "What's the dreadful drawback?"
"I hate to throw cold water," said Lucilla, "but how long will the flowers in our garden last if we sell them like this? You'll be 'sold out,' as the shops say, before the paint's dry on your board."
"But more flowers will come out."
"Not fast enough."
"We could buy flowers at Covent Garden and sell those."
"Then they wouldn't precisely be fresh-cut, would they?"
"True. How right you always are!"
"The fact is," Lucilla went on, "you make fun of my lists—but I've learned one thing by making them. I see that every plan we can make for making money here is made impossible by one thing. The house is too small."
"Then we must get another house."
"That's so easy, isn't it, with all the papers we bought at the station full of the housing problem? There aren't any other houses. You know there aren't."
"I don't know anything so absurd. There must be
