“This David is among the flowers, I fancy; I will just ask, and not bolt in, as he does not know me. “Where is Mr. Sterling?” added Christie aloud, as she approached. The man looked up, and a smile came into his eyes, as he glanced from the old hood to the young face inside. Then he took off his hat, and held out his hand, saying with just his mother’s simple directness: “I am David; and this is Christie Devon, I know. How do you do?” “Yes; dinner’s ready,” was all she could reply, for the discovery that this was the “master,” nearly took her breath away. Not the faintest trace of the melancholy Jaques about him; nothing interesting, romantic, pensive, or even stern. Only a broad-shouldered, brown-bearded man, with an old hat and coat, trousers tucked into his boots, fresh mould on the hand he had given her to shake, and the cheeriest voice she had ever heard. What a blow it was to be sure! Christie actually felt vexed with him for disappointing her so, and could not recover herself, but stood red and awkward, till, with a last scrape of his boots, David said with placid brevity: “Well, shall we go in?” Christie walked rapidly into the house, and by the time she got there the absurdity of her fancy struck her, and she stifled a laugh in the depths of the little pumpkin-hood, as she hung it up. Then, assuming her gravest air, she went to give the finishing touches to dinner. Ten minutes later she received another surprise; for David appeared washed, brushed, and in a suit of gray,—a personable gentleman, quite unlike the workman in the yard. Christie gave one look, met a pair of keen yet kind eyes with a suppressed laugh in them, and dropped her own, to be no more lifted up till dinner was done. It was a very quiet meal, for no one said much; and it was evidently the custom of the house to eat silently, only now and then saying a few friendly words, to show that the hearts were social if the tongues were not. On the present occasion this suited Christie; and she ate her dinner without making any more discoveries, except that the earth-stained hands were very clean now, and skilfully supplied her wants before she could make them known. As they rose from table, Mrs. Sterling said: “Davy, does thee want any help this afternoon?” “I shall be very glad of some in about an hour if thee can spare it, mother.” “I can, dear.” “Do you care for flowers?” asked David, turning to Christie, “because if you do not, this will be a very trying place for you.” “I used to love them dearly; but I have not had any for so long I hardly remember how they look,” answered Christie with a sigh, as she recalled Rachel’s roses, dead long ago. “Shy, sick, and sad; poor soul, we must lend a hand and cheer her up a bit” thought David, as he watched her eyes turn toward the green tilings in the windows with a bright, soft look, he liked to see.