"How annoying that we should always be meeting him!" observed Nan, innocently. "Don't laugh, Phillis: he will hear you." "My dear, it must be fate," returned Phillis solemnly. "I shall think it my duty to warn Dick if this goes on." But, in spite of her mischievous speech, she darted a quick, interested look after the handsome young clergyman as he walked on. Both the girls stood in the porch for some minutes after they had made their retreat. They had come out to cool themselves and to get a breath of air, until a July sun and Mr. Drummond's sudden appearance defeated their intention. They had no idea that they were watched from behind the screening geraniums in Mrs. Crump's window. Both of them were enveloped in Dorothy's bib-aprons, which hid their pretty rounded figures. Phillis's cheeks were flushed, and her arms were bare to the dimpled elbows; and Nan's brown hair was slightly dishevelled. "We look just like cooks!" exclaimed Phillis, regarding her coarse apron with disfavor; but Nan stretched her arms with a little indifference and weariness. "What does it matter how we look,--like cooks or housemaids? I am dreadfully tired; but we must go in and work, Phil. I wonder what has become of Dulce?" And then the charming vision disappeared from the young clergyman's eyes, and he was free to fix his mind on the wire fence that was required for the poultry-yard. As soon as he had accomplished his errand he set his face towards the vicarage, for he made up his mind suddenly that he would call on the Middletons, and perhaps on Mrs. Cheyne. The latter was a duty that he owed to his pastoral conscience; but there was no need for him to go to the Middletons'. Nevertheless, the father and daughter were his most intimate friends, and on all occasions he was sure of Miss Middleton's sympathy. They lived at Brooklyn,--a low white house a little below the vicarage. It was a charming house, he always thought, so well arranged and well managed; and the garden--that was the colonel's special hobby--was as pretty as a garden could be. The drawing-room looked shady and comfortable, for the French windows opened into a cool veranda, fitted up with flower-baskets and wicker chairs; and beyond lay the trim lawn, with beds of blazing verbenas and calceolarias. Miss Middleton's work-table was just within one of the windows; but the colonel, in his gray summer suit, reclined in a lounging-chair in the veranda. He was reading the paper to his daughter, and was just in the middle of last night's debate; nevertheless, he threw it aside, well pleased at the interruption. "I knew how I should find you occupied," observed Mr. Drummond, as he exchanged a smile with Miss Middleton. He was fully aware that politics were not to her taste, and yet every afternoon she listened to such reading, well content even with the sound of her father's voice.