“You have not seen the loveliest part of Mt.  Vernon yet, Miss Thurston,” Peter Dillon interposed just at this instant.  “I want to show you the old garden, and we must hurry before the gates are closed.  Yes; I know I did not answer your question.  An attache just makes himself generally useful to his chief.  But if you really want to know what my ambition is, and how I work to achieve it, why some day I will tell you.”  Peter looked at Bab so seriously that she answered quickly: 

“Yes, I should dearly love to see the garden.”

Bab and Peter Dillon wandered together through the paths formed by the box hedges planted in Martha Washington’s garden more than a century ago.

Neither seemed to feel like talking.  The young man had seen the gardener as they entered the enclosure, and had persuaded him to allow them to go through the lovely spot alone.

Bab’s vivid imagination brought to life the old colonial ladies who had once wandered in this famous garden.  She saw their white wigs, their powder and patches and full skirts.  So Bab forgot all about her companion.

Suddenly she heard Peter give a slight exclamation.  They had both come to the end of the garden walk.  There before them stood a great rose tree.  Blooming in the unusually warm sunshine were two rose-buds, gently tipped with frost.

“Ah, Miss Thurston, how glad I am we found the garden first!” Peter cried.  “This is the famous Mary Washington rose, which Washington planted here in his garden, and named in honor of his mother.  Wait here until I find the gardener.  I am going to make him let us have these two tiny rose-buds.”

“How nice Peter Dillon really is,” Bab thought.  “Ruth was mistaken in warning me against him.  Of course, he does not show on the surface what he actually feels.  But perhaps I shall find out he is a finer fellow than we think he is.  Mr. Hamlin says Harriet is wrong in believing Peter is never in earnest about anything.”

“It’s all right, Miss Thurston,” called Peter, returning in a few minutes with his eyes shining.  “The gardener says we may have the roses.”  The young fellow dropped down on his knees before the rose bush without a bit of affectation or self-consciousness.  He skilfully cut the two half faded rose-buds from the stalk and handed one to Barbara.

“Keep this, Miss Thurston,” he said earnestly.  “And if ever you should wish me to do you a favor, just send the flower to me and I shall perform whatever task you set me to do to the best of my skill.”  Peter looked at his own rose.  “May I keep my rose-bud for the same purpose?” he begged quietly.  “Perhaps I shall send my flower to you some day and ask you to do me a service.  Will you do it for me?”

“Yes, Mr. Dillon, I will do you any favor that I can,” Bab returned steadily.  “But I don’t make rash promises in the dark.  And I have very little opportunity to do people favors.  You make me think of the newspaper girl, Marjorie Moore.  She tried to force me into a promise without letting me know what she wanted, the first day I saw her.  Does everyone try to get some one to do something for him in Washington?”