"How provokingly cool you two look. Here have Ted and I been working like galley-slaves, until Mr. Logan chose to come and break in on our work." "She was overtiring herself, so I took away the trowel," returned Mr. Logan, with an expression of quiet humor. "Moderation in everything, Miss Catherine, even in fern-hunting. St. Paul's rule is the best." "I like to be my own taskmaster," grumbled Cathy, who seemed to be in one of her impracticable moods. "Queen, for pity's sake come with me for a run across the moor. I have been so long with Miss Faith and Mr. Logan that I shall have a 'break out' directly, as the prison matron calls it, unless I associate for a little with less desperately good people. Moderation even in this is the best rule," continued Cathy aggravatingly, drawing up her graceful figure, and darting a defiant look at Mr. Logan. "After all, St. Paul was right; so come along, Queenie." "Kitty, whatever has put you into such a bad temper?" asked her friend affectionately, linking her arm in the girl's as they crossed the tramway. "I don't know; he treats me like a child, and I will not bear it. He puts me in one of my tantrums, and then pities and drives me wild with that gentle way of his. I hate to feel so ashamed of myself, and he knows it." "But what is it all about?" asked Queenie, a little bewildered at this sudden storm. "Oh, I don't know, I never do know, that is just the aggravating part. I say something in my usual way, and then he puts me down and argues with me, and proves that he is right and I am wrong; and then when I get cross, and human nature won't bear such an amount of contradiction,--at least mine won't,--he just says I am tired, and takes away my trowel. I know all the time he is laughing at me in his quiet way, and saying to himself, 'that poor foolish child.'" "But, Cathy, there is no harm in that." "There is harm when I am no child, when I do not feel like one, when--but I won't talk about it any more. Let us have a race, Queen--one--two--three--away," and Cathy flew down the moor with a swift, bird-like movement, her small head erect, but not before Queenie had caught the gleam of something like a tear on one long eyelash. Just then a whistle from Garth summoned the scattered party together. The afternoon was far advanced; some evening clouds skirted the edge of the moor; the children were weary. The little engine steamed up slowly towards them, and all hands were busy in packing the hampers and baskets on the truck. Cathy stood aside a little sulkily while the rest clambered into their places. Queenie, who was watching them, saw that Mr. Logan wanted to assist her, but Cathy would have none of his help; she was therefore a little surprised when he followed her, and seated himself persistently by their side.