David saw her there, and, feeling that he might come off guard for a time, went strolling down to lean upon the wall, and chat in the friendly fashion that had naturally grown up between these fellow-workers. She was waiting for the new supply of ferns little Adelaide was getting for her by the wall; and while she waited she sat resting her cheek upon her hand, and smiling to herself, as if she saw some pleasant picture in the green grass at her feet. “Now I wonder what she’s thinking about,” said David’s voice close by, and Christie straightway answered: “Philip Fletcher.” “And who is he?” asked David, settling his elbow in a comfortable niche between the mossy stones, so that he could “lean and loaf” at his ease. “The brother of the lady whose children I took care of;” and Christie wished she had thought before she answered that first question, for in telling her adventures at diiferent times she had omitted all mention of this gentleman. “Tell about him, as the children say: your experiences are always interesting, and you look as if this man was uncommonly entertaining in some way,” said David, indolently inclined to be amused. “Oh, dear no, not at all entertaining! invalids seldom are, and he was sick and lazy, conceited and very cross sometimes.” Christie’s heart rather smote her as she said this, remembering the last look poor Fletcher gave her. “A nice man to be sure; but I don’t see any thing to smile about,” persisted David, who liked reasons for things; a masculine trait often very trying to feminine minds. “I was thinking of a little quarrel we once had. He found out that I had been an actress; for I basely did not mention that fact when I took the place, and so got properly punished for my deceit. I thought he’d tell his sister of course, so I did it myself, and retired from the situation as much disgusted with Christie Devon as you are.” “Perhaps I ought to be, but I don’t find that I am. Do you know I think that old Fletcher was a sneak?” and David looked as if he would rather like to mention his opinion to that gentleman. “He probably thought he was doing his duty to the children: few people would approve of an actress for a teacher you know. He had seen me play, and remembered it all of a sudden, and told me of it: that was the way it came about,” said Christie hastily, feeling that she must get out of the scrape as soon as possible, or she would be driven to tell every thing in justice to Mr. Fletcher. “I should like to see you act.” “You a Quaker, and express such a worldly and dreadful wish?” cried Christie, much amused, and very grateful that his thoughts had taken a new direction.