The parsonage was a gray old shadow of a building. Its walls were
stained with past rains, the roof showed depressions, the veranda
steps were unsteady, in fact one was gone. Wesley mounted and seated
himself in one of the gnarled old rustic chairs which defied weather.
From where he sat he could see a pink and white plumage of blossoms
over an orchard; even the weedy garden showed lovely lights under the
triumphant June sun. Butterflies skimmed over it, always in pairs,
now and then a dew-light like a jewel gleamed out, and gave a
delectable thrill of mystery. Wesley wished the girl were there. Then
she came. He saw a flutter of blue in the garden, then a face like a
rose overtopped the weeds. The sunlight glanced from a dark head,
giving it high-lights of gold.

The girl approached. When she saw the minister, she started, but not
as if with surprise; rather as if she had made ready to start. She
stood at the foot of the steps, glowing with blushes, but still not
confused. She smiled with friendly confidence. She was very pretty
and she wore a delicious gown, if one were not a woman, to observe
the lack of fashion and the faded streaks, and she carried a little
silk work-bag.

Wesley rose. He also blushed, and looked more confused than the girl.
"Good morning, Miss Dodge," he said. His hands twitched a little.

Fanny Dodge noted his confusion quite calmly. "Are you busy?" said
she.

"You are laughing at me, Miss Dodge. What on earth am I busy about?"