As Susan pronounced these words, a voice behind the little listening crowd cried, in a brutal tone, “Let us pass, if you please; you have no right to stop up the public road!” This was the voice of Attorney Case, who was returning with his daughter Barbara from his visit to the Abbey. He saw the lamb, and tried to whistle as he went on. Barbara also saw the guinea-hen, and turned her head another way, that she might avoid the contemptuous, reproachful looks of those whom she only affected to despise. Even her new bonnet, in which she had expected to be so much admired, was now only serviceable to hide her face and conceal her mortification. “I am glad she saw the guinea-hen,” cried Rose, who now held it in her hands. “Yes,” said Philip, “she’ll not forget May day in a hurry.” “Nor I neither, I hope,” said Susan, looking round upon her companions with a most affectionate smile: “I hope, whilst I live, I shall never forget your goodness to me last May day. Now I’ve my pretty guinea-hen safe once more, I should think of returning your money.” “No! no! no!” was the general cry. “We don’t want the money—keep it, keep it—you want it for your father.” “Well,” said Susan, “I am not too proud to be obliged. I _will_ keep your money for my father. Perhaps some time or other I may be able to earn—” “Oh,” interrupted Philip, “don’t let us talk of earning; don’t let us talk to her of money now; she has not had time hardly to look at poor Daisy and her guinea-hen. Come, we must go about our business, and let her have them all to herself.” The crowd moved away in consequence of Philip’s considerate advice: but it was observed that he was the very last to stir from the garden-wicket himself. He stayed, first, to inform Susan that it was Rose who tied the ribands on Daisy’s head. Then he stayed a little longer to let her into the history of the guinea-hen, and to tell her who it was that brought the hen home from the Abbey. Rose held the sieve, and Susan was feeding her long lost favourite, whilst Philip leaned over the wicket, prolonging his narration. “Now, my pretty guinea-hen,” said Susan—“my naughty guinea-hen, that flew away from me, you shall never serve me so again. I must cut your nice wings; but I won’t hurt you.” “Take care,” cried Philip; “you’d better, indeed you’d better let me hold her whilst you cut her wings.”