Mrs. Atwood and Susan were greatly pleased at the changes, but thought it politic not to say much about them; one evening, however, his father began to banter him, remarking that Roger must be intending to “bring home a wife some fine morning.”  The young fellow reddened resentfully, and brusquely retorted that they “had lived in their old slovenly way long enough.  People might well think they were going to the bad.”  This practical view somewhat reconciled his father to the new ideas, and suggested that Roger was not so daft as he feared.  A little time after he was led to believe his son to be shrewder than himself.  Needing some money, he took a note to the bank with much misgiving, but was agreeably surprised when one of the officers said affably, “I think we can accommodate you, Mr. Atwood.  I was by your place the other day, and it is so improved that I scarcely knew it.  Thrift and credit go together.”

But Mildred doubted whether thrift and policy were the only motives which had led to Roger’s unwonted action, and believed rather that he had awakened to a perception of the value and attractiveness of those things which hitherto he had not appreciated.  This, in a sense, was already true, but had she known to what extent she was in his thoughts she would not have smiled so complacently when, on the Saturday morning after the completion of his other labors, she noted that the weed-choked flower-borders along the walk had been cleaned and neatly rounded up, and the walk itself put in perfect order.  “The flower-beds remind me of himself,” she thought, as from time to time she glanced at them through her open window.  “They contain a good deal of vacant space, and suggest what might be there rather than what is.  Would to heaven, though, that Mr. Arnold had more of his muscle and decision.  If Vinton were only different, how different all the future might be!  But I fear, I fear.  We have not enough money to last all summer if we remain here, and father writes so discouragingly.  Thank God, I’m no longer idle, whether anything comes of my work or not,” and the delicate piece of fancy work grew rapidly in her deft hands.

Toward evening she started out for a walk, but uttered an exclamation of surprise as she saw the flower-borders were bright with verbenas, heliotrope, geraniums, and other bedding plants.  Roger’s buggy stood near, containing two large empty boxes, and he was just raking the beds smooth once more in order to finish his task.

“Why, Mr. Atwood!” she cried, “it has long seemed to me that a good fairy was at work around the house, but this is a master-stroke.”

“If you are pleased I am well repaid,” he replied, the color deepening on his sunburned cheeks.

“If I am pleased?” she repeated in surprise, and with a faint answering color.  “Why, all will be pleased, especially your mother and Susan.”

“No doubt, but I thought these would look more like what you have been accustomed to.”