"Where have you been?" said he.

"In the Doctor's garden," said Tiny triumphantly; "and look what I have
done! I've weeded his sweet-peas, and brought away the groundsel; so
when he gets home to-night he'll think a Brownie has been in the
garden, for Mrs. Pickles has promised not to tell him."

"But look here!" said the Rector, affecting a great appearance of
severity, "you're my Brownie, not his. Supposing Tommy Trout had gone
and weeded Farmer Swede's garden, and brought back his weeds to go to
seed on the Tailor's flower-beds, how do you think he would have liked
it?"

Tiny looked rather crestfallen. When one has fairly carried through a
splendid benevolence of this kind, it is trying to find oneself in the
wrong. She crept up to the Rector, however, and put her golden head
upon his arm.

"But, Father dear," she pleaded, "I didn't mean not to be your Brownie;
only, you know, you had got five left at home, and it was only for a
short time, and the Doctor hasn't any Brownie at all. Don't you pity
him?"

And the Rector, who was old enough to remember that grave-stone story
we wot of, hugged his Brownie in his arms, and answered,

"My Darling, I do pity him!"