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The garden, the great, terraced garden, seemed to have paled a little in July heat from its flush of June joy.

White flowers predominated—or light ones.

But, here and there, blue larkspur raised its dewy spires, one with the dancing tint of the girl’s eyes.

Gladioli and hollyhocks, tall pages of the rising sun, in their salmon-pink and crimson, bent to awaken their neighbor, the yellow tiger lily, one of the flowers admitted to the lovely democracy of the sundial bed, the flower clock, because it closed sleepily at night, to open at a rather late hour of the morning—as would the dreaming carnation.

Una—Una was saying good-by to that dewy flower clock now, for which she had won a Camp Fire honor for creation—original creation—or if the idea, old as the hills as all ideas are, had been in the “flower-bab” brain of some old botanist, a couple of hundred years before, it had been born anew, impromptu, in hers: she had risen early and watched late, to work it out.

Old Sods, who spurned daylight saving, going by any but the Lord’s time, established custom, had repaired the pretty floral clock after the rude shock of an aviator’s crashing down upon the heads of the sleeping flowers.