Since then, the flowers she had planted had spread all over the hill. Already the jonquils were blooming in a flock by the front gate, and the periwinkles were coming on, blue by the porch steps. In a week the hyacinths would spike out. And the dogwood in early May, for Miss Ada's alfresco party; and after that the Japanese cherries. Now the yard looked wet and bald, the trees bare under their buds, but in a while Miss Ada's flowers would bloom like a marching parade. She had dug a hole for each bulb, each tree wore a tag with her writing on it; where would she go for her gardening now? Somehow Winston didn't think she'd take to window boxes.

Sighing, he hurried to the living room. He had a thousand things to see to. Still, he couldn't help thinking, we're all getting old, getting small; the snail is pulling in her horns.

In the living room, Miss Ada was standing by the window with a sheaf of lists in her hand. She was looking out at the garden.

``Winston,'' she said, ``get the basket for the breakables.''

Winston had the big straw basket ready in the hall. He brought it in and put it down beside her. Miss Ada was looking fine; she had on her Easter suit, blue, with lavender binding. Halfway across the house, he could have smelled her morning perfume. It hung in all her day clothes, sweet and strong; sometimes when he was pressing, Winston raised her dresses to his face.