JUNE, departing, had scattered her wealth of floral treasures wide over the land, and Cherry Street, lowliest child of her adoption, had not been forgotten. Under the wholesome influence of trowel, watering-can, and good black soil Miss Billy's garden had grown apace, and now burst into such a riotous excess of bloom as brought the small Cherryites to the fence in groups of silent adoration. Beds of scarlet geraniums glowed like the heart of rubies on the green lawn. Sweet peas were opening their pretty eyes and peeping over into Mr. Hennesy's yard. June roses, white, pink, and blood red, swung on their stems breathing incense night and day, while on the side of the house bloomed the pansy bed, hundreds of pretty faces of many colours and marvellous size. Over the back fence nasturtiums were opening their golden hearts, and a group of tall hollyhocks stood boldly disputing right of way with the arms of the Hennesy clothes reel.

Mrs. Hennesy had been sweeping, and now she stood in the upstairs window looking down at the floral display in her neighbour's yard.

"It do be lookin' loike a park, Mary Jane," she commented at last. "Mrs. Casey was a good neighbour an' its mesilf that'll niver be over missin' her,—but she niver had things lookin' loike that. An' it's that girl—'Miss Billy,' as they call her,—that's done it all."

Marie Jean, who had condescended to the menial task of setting her bureau drawers to rights, turned her head slightly. "Well," she commented indifferently, "if she wants to waste her time on an old garden I suppose it's nobody's business but her own."

Mrs. Hennesy discreetly waived the argument. "I think I'll be goin' over there to see thim this afthernoon, Mary Jane. They're that noice an' frindly it ain't roight for us not to be goin' near thim. Miss Billy has axed me twice to have you come over. It ain't neighbourly, Mary Jane,—that's what it ain't."

"Well, go on if you want to," said Marie Jean, beginning to hum a tune to show the matter was too trifling for further consideration; but she broke off to add, "wear your bead cape and your lace bonnet if you do go."

Mrs. Hennesy's face took on a look of despair. "Well now, Mary Jane," she began, "it's just a neighbour, an' a clane apron——"

"You must wear your bead cape and your lace bonnet," reiterated Marie Jean, with spirit. "And be sure you go to the front door. You must go decently, or not at all."

Mrs. Hennesy departed from the room, and presently went down the stairs in all the glory of her best dress, augmented by the bead cape and the lace bonnet. Marie Jean secretly surveyed her through the crack of the door, and returned to her task somewhat mollified. "I guess they won't find anything to laugh at in that bead cape," she said, with a toss of her head.

Mrs. Hennesy passed out through the kitchen door, but returned again. She drew off her black silk mitts, stepped to the stairs to see if by any chance Marie Jean was listening, and tiptoed back to the kitchen cupboard. She looked uncertainly into the coffee can which was quite full, then into the tea caddie which was half full, and finally shook the sugar box, which responded roundly. "Well, I'll borry some tea, annyway," she whispered, and taking a cup, secreted it carefully under the bead cape. Thus fortified, she passed around to the front gate, and, thankful that Marie Jean's point of vision could no longer command her actions, hurried around by way of the pansy bed to her neighbour's side entrance and rapped at the door.

Mrs. Lee responded to the summons. "Why, it is Mrs. Hennesy," she said cordially, extending a hand to welcome her neighbour. "Do come in. It is cooler here in the dining room than in any other place in the house at this time of the day, so we'll sit right here. Beatrice, won't you take Mrs. Hennesy's cape and bonnet?"

"Well, now, I can't stay a minute," protested Mrs. Hennesy, in her soft Irish brogue. "I must be goin' back to start supper fer Mr. Hennesy, fer he gets no dinner these days but the bite he takes wid him in a pail. An' I only stepped over to see if I c'ud borry a drawin' of tea fer his supper. Me an' Mary Jane has been that busy all day we c'udn't get to the store."

The cup was filled with the desired "drawing of tea," and stood in readiness on the table, but as the minutes sped, Mrs. Hennesy, warm and perspiring, but loyal for Marie Jean's sake to the bead cape, began to feel more at ease. Mrs. Lee was not like Mrs. Casey, it was true, and could never fill her place,—but she would make a good neighbour,—and the girls were as pretty as pictures with their contrasting styles of beauty and pretty dresses.

Of course, they were not to be compared with Mary Jane. Mary Jane was—well, more dressed-up like and stylish, than these Lee girls. But they were nice and kind, and treated their mother like a queen. Mrs. Hennesy wished Mary Jane might be there to see it.

"Sure an' Mary Jane will be in to see you wan of these days, soon," said Mrs. Hennesy as she rose to terminate her call. "It's bashful she is, or else jealous, wid John Thomas soundin' Miss Billy's praises all day long. It's 'Miss Billy says this,' an' 'Miss Billy does that,' an' he thinks Mary Jane can't hould a candle to Miss Billy,—an' that's the thruth of it."

"And I think John Thomas is a jewel," declared Miss Billy warmly. "I wouldn't have a flower now if it wasn't for him. Do come out and look at them, Mrs. Hennesy,—and carry a bouquet to your daughter from me."

"Well now,—if them ain't lovely," declared Mrs. Hennesy, as Miss Billy began culling with a generous hand. "An' thim ould fashioned hollyhocks, as sassy as you plaze. Another summer an' I'll be havin' some fer mesilf."

"You may have slips and seeds from all my plants," responded Miss Billy generously, "and John Thomas could easily bring the dirt."

Mrs. Hennesy shook her head doubtfully. "It's wades I'd be after raisin'," she protested. "Sure an' flowers don't be growin' fer ivery wan loike they do fer you."

"Weeds!" Miss Billy took up the words dolefully. "Mrs. Hennesy, weeds are making my existence miserable. Look at my hands from keeping the weeds down. But it's no use,—look there!" She pointed as she spoke, up and down Cherry Street, and Mrs. Hennesy's following glance took in a long vista of rank vegetation flanking every sidewalk and dooryard, weeds great and small, broad and feathery, tall and diminutive, flaunting their rank growth in the hot sunshine.

"Well, thim's not all yours," said Mrs. Hennesy consolingly. "There's none in your yard, so ye needn't care."

"Oh, but I see them, and I hate them so!" said Miss Billy despairingly. "And the seeds are beginning to blow over here. The plantain and dandelions are killing my new grass already."

"Well, wheriver there's good, there's bad," said Mrs. Hennesy philosophically: "An' if the good stopped tryin' an' quit what w'ud become of the world, I'd loike to know? Hould fast to yer flowers, Miss Billy, an' remimber whereiver wan of thim grows a weed can't," with which comforting advice the kind-hearted Mrs. Hennesy, holding fast to Marie Jean's bouquet and the borrowed cup of tea, took her departure.

The setting of the sun brought relief to Cherry Street. Every tiny porch held its household group, and the clear moonlight and cool breeze brought recompense for the glare and toil of the day. By degrees the noisy laughter and outcries of children waned and ceased, the murmured talk of their elders died away, and the street was wrapped in slumber.

It was then Miss Billy came softly from her room, clad in a flowing wrapper. She listened longest at Theodore's door, till, satisfied by his heavy breathing that he slept, she descended the stairs and stepped out into the moonlight.

Mingled with the perfume of her roses came the rank breath of the weeds, bringing malarial poisons to the sleepers of Cherry Street. Mrs. Hennesy's words came uppermost in her mind. "Wherever there's good, there's bad,—and if the good stopped trying, what would become of the world?" "Well, I'm going to help all I can, and I'm going to commence on Mr. Schultzsky's premises." She caught up a sickle, crossed the sidewalk jubilantly, and bumped into another pale wraith, sickle in hand, who straightened himself suddenly from the O'Brien weeds.

"John Thomas Hennesy!" she exclaimed. "How you frightened me! What are you doing out here at this time of night?"

John Thomas wiped the honest drops of toil from his brow and regarded her sickle suspiciously. "I'm cutting weeds. I've cut our own and now I'm cutting Canary's. What are you going to do, I'd like to know?"

"I'm going to cut Mr. Schultzsky's," said Miss Billy, in a gay stage whisper. "No,—not a word, John Thomas,—I want the satisfaction of laying those weeds low myself."

"Well if she ain't a reg'lar brick!" said John Thomas admiringly, as the swish of her sickle came across the street to his ears. "Catch Mary Jane taking a sickle in her lily white hand to——"

The rest of his sentence was lost in the sound of his own sickle as it played dexterously among the O'Brien weeds.

There were other ears than John Thomas's on which fell the swish of Miss Billy's keen blade that night. Two eyes peered down from an open window of the Schultzsky house on a girl kneeling in the very dooryard. A girl who might have been mistaken for a saving angel with the moonlight on her wavy hair and flowing gown. A girl who attacked the weeds in a very fury of resentment, and scattered their rank growth in every direction. The eyes peered and peered, and then withdrew,—but gave no sign.

It was ten o'clock the next morning when Miss Billy came sleepily down to her breakfast. Theodore met her with suspicion lurking in his eye, but sang carelessly:

"Say Sis, who cut all those weeds last night?"

"Theodore," said Miss Billy pathetically, with a nervous sense of aching muscles, and a weariness on which his raillery grated, "is there any breakfast?"

"There is," said Theodore; "I couldn't half eat mine, I was so excited. I've been bursting to tell you the news for two hours. Guess, Sis, what's happened?"

"What?" said Miss Billy, looking apprehensive. That it was something portentous she knew from Theodore's manner.

"Mr. Schultzskyczarovitch fell through the rotten planks of our sidewalk this morning at eight o'clock, and broke his leg, even as you wished."

"Oh," said Miss Billy faintly, and then for no reason at all collapsed in a little heap to the carpet.