"Well, good-bye till the fall," said Mrs. Bunker. "Lord Stafford, do you remember that odd trick you had abroad, of turning up unexpectedly, wherever I happened to be?" She tapped him playfully with a carnation from her bouquet. "Ha, ha, ha! You see, I haven’t lost that trick yet, Mrs. Bunker!" He took the carnation and fastened it in his buttonhole. "Good-bye, Lord Canning," said Indiana. "Don’t forget to look us up, when you come to the woods. I’ll show you the sights." Lord Canning bowed, blushing with embarrassment. No young lady, of the tender age of Indiana, had ever before spoken to him with such freedom, or looked at him with such unconscious, unabashed eyes. "Lively woman, Mrs. Bunker," remarked Lord Stafford, looking after the party, and inhaling the fragrance of the carnation. He met with no response. "Lively woman, eh?" he repeated in a louder tone. "Yes," answered Lord Canning absently, "very, very young; little more than a child, in spite of her self-assurance—and there’s something about her—something—quite—er—different!" *CHAPTER III.* *On a Model Farm* "The peas are sprouting pretty lively. The tomatoes are as perky as the young generation. The strawberries—well, they’re saying, ’To-day we’re here, to-morrow we’re gone.’ You shall have strawberries and cream for supper this evening." After delivering this report in his own neat style, Stillwater rolled down his shirt sleeves, threw aside his big straw wide awake, and sank into a rocker. "What are you making, mother?" "A little dimity dress for Indiana to wear about the farm." "Well, history repeats itself on this place. Are you commencing to make dresses for Indiana again? I suppose you’re imagining she’s a little fat tot, and we’ve always been just here." "Not when I look at all this goods," said Mrs. Stillwater laughing, "though she’s small, compared to what I was at her age." "Why don’t you send to town for some dresses," asked Stillwater. "Oh, because it’s a pleasure to make it myself, father, and the child loves to see me do it." "Bye the bye." Stillwater took a handkerchief from his pocket, and unfolding it, carefully disclosed what to ignorant eyes was simply an ordinary potato. "I’ll have something to show at the next county fair, that’ll make neighbor Masters feel like very _small potatoes_." Mrs. Bunker, who was embroidering red roses on white linen, handled the potato with the air of a connoisseur. "Father, you’re working as hard on this farm as if your living depended on it," said Mrs. Stillwater. "My living does depend on it; I’d have been under the ground before long, if I hadn’t taken to this. I consider every potato which costs me ten dollars, is equivalent to a doctor’s pill." Mrs. Bunker laughed.