“I’ll give way, I’m sure, Aunt Judy,” cried No. 6, quite glad to be rid of the dispute; “and so will you, won’t you, No. 8?” she added, appealing to that young gentleman, who stood with his pinafore full of dirty oyster-shells, not quite understanding the meaning of what was said.

“I’ll what?” inquired he.

“Oh, never mind!  Only throw the oyster-shells down, and come with Aunt Judy.  It will be much better fun than staying here.”

No. 8 lowered his pinafore at the word of command, and dropped the discarded oyster-shells, one by one—­where do you think?—­why—­right into the middle of his little garden! an operation which seemed to be particularly agreeable to him, if one might judge by his face.  He was not sorry either to be relieved from the weight.

“You see, Aunt Judy,” continued No. 6 to her sister, who had now joined them, “it doesn’t so much matter about the oyster-shell trimming; but No. 8’s garden is always in such a mess, that I must have a wall or something between us!”

“You shall have a wall or a path decidedly,” replied Aunt Judy:  “a road is the next best thing to a river for a boundary-line.  But now, all of you, pick up the tools and come with me, and you shall do some regular work, and be paid for it at the rate of half-a-farthing for every half hour.  Think what a magnificent offer!”

The little ones thought so in reality, and welcomed the arrangement with delight, and trudged off behind Aunt Judy, calculating so hard among themselves what their conjoint half-farthings would come to, for the half-hours they all intended to work, and furthermore, what amount or variety of “goodies” they would purchase, that Aunt Judy half fancied herself back in the depths of the “Rule of False” again!

She led them at last to a pretty shrubbery-walk, of which they were all very fond.  On one side of it was a quick-set hedge, in which the honeysuckle was mixed so profusely with the thorn, that they grew and were clipped together.

It was the choicest spot for a quiet evening stroll in summer that could possibly be imagined.  The sweet scent from the honeysuckle flowers stole around you with a welcome as you moved along, and set you a dreaming of some far-off region where the delicious sensations produced by the odour of flowers may not be as transient as they are here.

There was an alcove in the middle of the walk—­not one of the modern mockeries of rusticity—­but a real old-fashioned lath-and-plaster concern, such as used to be erected in front of a bowling-green.  It was roofed in, was open only on the sunny side, and was supported by a couple of little Ionic pillars, up which clematis and passion-flower were studiously trained.

There was a table as well as seats within; and the alcove was a very nice place for either reading or drawing in, as it commanded a pretty view of the distant country.  It was also, and perhaps especially, suited to the young people in their more poetical and fanciful moods.