"Chirrup!" went the whistle again, but still unheard, for the Reverend Arthur had just placed one of the succulent branches he had broken off between his lips, and, as if imitating the ways of Dewnose and Bessy, he was sedately munching away at the pleasant acid growth. "Chirrup!" again, but this time in another direction, and, perfectly unconscious of the summons, the Reverend Arthur went on with his pruning, breakfasting the while off the tender acid shoots. Chirrup after chirrup mingled with the songs of the birds, and at last the bustling little figure of the lady lately seen at the Rectory window appeared at the door. "Why, here you are Arthur!" she exclaimed. "What a shame it is! You said you'd be down by the bees." "I'm--I'm very sorry, my dear Mary," said the guilty truant, with a look of appeal in his face. "That's what you always say, sir, and here is the ham getting cold, the eggs will be quite hard, and I've got my feet soaking wet running all over the place." "I really am very sorry, my dear Mary," said the Reverend Arthur, slowly descending from his perch. "I never did see such a man," cried the little lady, with her pleasant face a droll mixture of vexation and good-humour. As she spoke she took up the curate's long coat, and held it ready for him to put on, tip-toeing to enable him to thrust his long thin arms into the sleeves, and then tip-toeing a little more to reach up and give him a hearty kiss. "There, I won't be very cross," she cried, "only there never was such a thoughtless, tiresome man before. Just look at your hands!" "It's only vine-juice, my dear Mary," he said, looking at his long thin fingers in turn. "Well, come along. You will have time to go and wash them while I change my shoes and stockings. Just look there." Miss Mary Rosebury made no hesitation about drawing her grey cloth dress aside to display a very prettily-shaped pair of feet and ankles, soaked with dew and muddied by the garden paths, before taking her brother, as it were, into custody and leading him up to the house. Five minutes later they were in the prettily-furnished dining-room, before a most temptingly spread breakfast-table, where everything was clean and neat as the home of an old bachelor, tended by a maiden sister, might be expected to be. There were flowers and hand-painted screens; the linen was snowy white, and the eggs, and butter, and cream were as delicious as the coffee. The morning prayers were read in presence of Cook and Jane; then the coffee was poured out in a dark amber stream, and for the first time the Reverend Arthur smiled. "Really, my dear Mary," he said, "I don't think any two people could be happier than we are." "Than we should be if you would not do such foolish things, Arthur," said the little lady, sharply. "Foolish things, my dear?" he replied, rather blankly.