David heard the call, turned and looked. Finding he was wanted, he advanced in a leisurely, independent sort of manner, giving his attention to the beds as he passed them, and stopping to pluck off any dead flower that offended his eye. He gave a nod as he reached Mrs. Hastings, his features not relaxing in the least. The nod was a mark of respect, and _meant_ as such; the only demonstration of respect commonly shown by David. His face was not ugly, though too flat and broad; his complexion was fair, and his eyes were blue. "David, see how the leaves have fallen; how they lie upon the ground!" David gave a half-glance round, by way of answer, but he did not speak. He knew the leaves were there without looking. "You must clear them away," continued Mrs. Hastings. "No," responded David to this. "'Twon't be of no use." "But, David, you know how very much I dislike to see these withered leaves," rejoined Mrs. Hastings in a voice more of pleading than of command. Command answered little with David. "Can't help seeing 'em," persisted David. "Leaves will wither; and will fall: it's their natur' to do it. If every one of them lying there now was raked up and swept away, there'd be as many down again to-morrow morning. I can't neglect my beds to fad with the leaves--and bring no good to pass, after all." "David, I do not think any one ever was so self-willed as you!" said Mrs. Hastings, laughing in spite of her vexation. "I know my business," was David's answer. "If I gave in at my different places to all the missises' whims, how should I get my work done? The masters would be blowing me up, thinking it was idleness. Look at Jonathan! he lets himself be swayed any way; and a nice time he gets of it, among 'em. His day's work's never done." "You would not suffer the leaves to lie there until the end of the season!" exclaimed Mrs. Hastings. "They would be up to our ankles as we walked." "May be they would," composedly returned David. "I have cleared 'em off about six times this fall, and I shall clear 'em again, but not as long as this wind lasts." "Is it going to last, David?" inquired the Rector, appearing at his wife's side, and laughing inwardly at her diplomatic failure. David nodded his usual salutation as he answered. He would sometimes relax so far as to say "Sir" to Mr. Hastings, an honour paid exclusively to his pastoral capacity. "No, it won't last, sir. We shall have the warm weather back again." "You think so!" exclaimed the Rector in an accent of disappointment. Experience had taught him that David, in regard to the weather, was an oracle. "I am sure so," answered David. "The b'rometer's going fast on to heat, too." "Is it?" said Mr. Hastings. "You have often told me you put no faith in the barometer." "No more I don't: unless other signs answer to it," said David. "The very best b'rometer going, is old father's rheumatiz. There was a sharp frost last night, sir."