The rector was not one for whose idle hands his arch-enemy might find mischief; he had come out to his piazza whistling, his hands in his pockets; but he saw at a glance that the roses bordering his front walk would look the better for a little trimming, and straightway he set to work. Still whistling, busy with knife and twine, happy as a school-boy whittling a man-o’-war, he did not notice that some one came through the little gate, and stood quite near, behind him. A small voice said: “Good-morning!” The young rector turned quickly, and beheld an amazingly red little figure. Her frock was red, her shoes and stockings were red, and her over-large hat was red. She wore white kid gloves and carried a small red cardcase. But her little face was not red; it was white, very white, and framed in a mass of flying black hair; her eyes were black, too, and large and wide opened. The rector stared at the brilliant little figure; she might have been the picture of an elf-child, were it not for the amusing imitations of grown-up conventionalities, the gloves and cardcase. “Good-morning!” she said again, in just the same tone. “Oh! I beg your pardon! Good-morning!” said the rector. “You are the new rector, I know,” said the child. “I am Miss Torrington, and I’ve come to call on your wife and daughters.” The rector’s stare turned into a look of frank amazement, even bewilderment. “My—I beg your pardon; I’m afraid I don’t quite understand!” “I’ve come to call on your wife and daughters,” repeated the little girl. “I’m Miss Virginia Witherspoon Torrington,” she declared convincingly, “and I live next door to you—over there, in the big house.” “Oh, yes, I see,” replied the rector. He was as punctiliously polite as the occasion demanded, but his mouth twitched just a little. “I’m sure I beg your pardon. I must be very stupid. But I regret to say that I have no wife or daughters.” “Are you sure you haven’t” asked Miss Torrington. “I’m afraid I am,” said the rector, humbly and apologetically. “Won’t you come in and call on me instead?” Miss Torrington pondered for a moment. “I think a gentleman ought to pay the _first_ call on a lady, don’t you?” The rector bit his lip, but the child went on: “Maggie O’Brien certainly told me there were three ladies in the family here!” “Oh!” exclaimed the young rector, as if he had found something. “Why, of course, there are! I didn’t think of that! There _are_ three ladies, and it’s very good of you to call on them. They’ll be delighted. You see, it was your speaking of my wife and daughters that made me forget.” “What are they, then?” asked the child. “One is my grandmother, and the others are my aunts.” “Oh, really? I should think you’d like the grandmother one. You know if you don’t have a grandmother already you can’t ever get one, and you can get a wife and daughters.” “That’s very true,” acknowledged the rector. “I suppose you haven’t a grandmother yourself?”