"Where is Laura?" proceeded the inquisitor. "Well, I might say that she was in Italy; for she is copying some fine thing of Raphael's or Michael Angelo's, or some great creatures or other; and she looks so picturesque in her pretty gown, sitting before her easel, that it's really a sight to behold, and I've peeped two or three times to see how she gets on." And Nan bestirred herself to prepare the dish Wherewith her picturesque sister desired to prolong her artistic existence. "Where is your father?" John asked again, checking off each answer with a nod and a little frown. "He is down in the garden, deep in some plan about melons, the beginning of which seems to consist in stamping the first proposition in Euclid all over the bed, and then poking a few seeds into the middle of each. Why, bless the dear man! I forgot it was time for the cider. Wouldn't you like to take it to him, John? He'd love to consult you; and the lane is so cool, it does one's heart good to look at it." John glanced from the steamy kitchen to the shadowy path, and answered with a sudden assumption of immense industry,-- "I couldn't possibly go, Nan,--I've so much on my hands. You'll have to do it yourself. 'Mr. Robert of Lincoln' has something for your private ear; and the lane is so cool, it will do one's heart good to see you in it. Give my regards to your father, and, in the words of 'Little Mabel's' mother, with slight variation,-- 'Tell the dear old body This day I cannot run, For the pots are boiling over And the mutton isn't done.'" "I will; but please, John, go in to the girls and be comfortable; for I don't like to leave you here," said Nan. "You insinuate that I should pick at the pudding or invade the cream, do you? Ungrateful girl, leave me!" And, with melodramatic sternness, John extinguished her in his broad-brimmed hat, and offered the glass like a poisoned goblet. Nan took it, and went smiling away. But the lane might have been the Desert of Sahara, for all she knew of it; and she would have passed her father as unconcernedly as if he had been an apple-tree, had he not called out,-- "Stand and deliver, little woman!" She obeyed the venerable highwayman, and followed him to and fro, listening to his plans and directions with a mute attention that quite won his heart. "That hop-pole is really an ornament now, Nan; this sage-bed needs weeding,--that's good work for you girls; and, now I think of it, you'd better water the lettuce in the cool of the evening, after I'm gone." To all of which remarks Nan gave her assent; the hop-pole took the likeness of a tall figure she had seen in the porch, the sage-bed, curiously enough, suggested a strawberry ditto, the lettuce vividly reminded her of certain vegetable productions a basket had brought, and the bobolink only sung in his cheeriest voice, "Go home, go home! he is there!"