"Mistletoe, is it, Miss? Ahem!" cried Finn, resting one little fist upon her hip,--and stretching out the other--"Tableau--young Druid priestess about to cut the sacred plant with a fern trowel." "Fin, dear, do come down. Don't touch it." "Not touch it? But I will. There!" she cried, tearing off a piece of the pretty parasite. "I'll wear that in my hat all the way home as a challenge to nobody, and on purpose to make Aunt Matty cross. She'll--" "Hist, Fin; oh, be quiet," whispered Tiny. "Eh? What's the matter?" cried Fin, from her perch. "Oh, pray be quiet; here's somebody coming." "Never mind," said Fin. "You stand behind the tree--they can't see us-- till I shout `Hallo!'" But Fin kept very quiet, peering down squirrel-wise, as a step was heard coming along the lane, and she caught glimpses through the trees of a man in a rough tweed suit and soft felt hat. The face was that of a keen, earnest man of eight-and-forty, with a full beard, just touched by life's frost, sharp dark eyes, and altogether a countenance not handsome, but likely to win confidence. The newcomer was walking with an easy stride, humming scraps of some ditty, and he swung by his side an ordinary tin can, holding about a quart of some steaming compound. "It's Saint Timothy," whispered Fin, from her perch. "Keep close." Tiny drew her dress closer together, and pressed to the tree trunk, looking terribly guilty, while her sister went on watching. The steps came nearer, and the stepper's eyes were busy with a keen look for everything, as he seemed to feast on the beauties of Nature around him. "`I love the merry, merry sunshine,'" he sang, in a bold, bluff voice; "and--Hallo, what the dickens have we here?" he cried, stopping short, and setting two hearts beating quickly. "Lady's basket and ferns dug up--yes, within the last hour. Why, that must be--Hallo, I spy, hi!" For as he spoke his eyes had been wandering about, amongst the brakes and bushes, and he had caught sight of a bit of muslin dress peeping out from behind a gnarled oak. The result of his summons was that the scrap of dress was softly drawn out of sight, and a voice from up in the ties whispered-- "Oh, go down, Tiny, and then he won't see me." "Hallo! whispers in the wind," cried the newcomer, glancing higher, and seeing a bit of Fin. "Is it a bird? By Jove, I wish I'd a gun. No: poachers--trespassers. Here, you fellows, come out!" Volume 1, Chapter VII. JENKLES'S CONFESSION. Sam Jenkles always boasted that he never kept anything from his wife; but he was silent for two days; and then, after a hard day's work, he was seated in his snug kitchen, watching the browning of a half-dozen fine potatoes in a Dutch oven before the fire, when Mrs Jenkles, a plump, bustling little woman, who was stitching away at a marvellous rate, her needle clicking at every stroke, suddenly exclaimed-- "Sam, you'd better give me that two pound you've got, and I'll put it with the rest."