To tell the truth, the encounter was not entirely unexpected on
my part. The previous Sunday I had seen her in church, and after
service it had transpired who she was, this new-comer, and what
aunt she was staying with. That morning a volunteer had been
called for, to take a note to the Parsonage, and rather to my own
surprise I had found myself stepping forward with alacrity, while
the others had become suddenly absorbed in various pursuits,
or had sneaked unobtrusively out of view. Certainly I had not
yet formed any deliberate plan of action; yet I suppose I
recollected that the road to the Parsonage led past her aunt's
garden.

She began the conversation, while I hopped backwards and forwards
over the ditch, feigning a careless ease.

"Saw you in church on Sunday," she said; "only you looked
different then. All dressed up, and your hair quite smooth, and
brushed up at the sides, and oh, so shiny! What do they put on
it to make it shine like that? Don't you hate having your hair
brushed?" she ran on, without waiting for an answer. "How your
boots squeaked when you came down the aisle! When mine squeak, I
walk in all the puddles till they stop. Think I'll get over the
fence."

This she proceeded to do in a businesslike way, while, with
my hands deep in my pockets, I regarded her movements with silent
interest, as those of some strange new animal.

"I've been gardening," she explained, when she had joined me,
"but I didn't like it. There's so many worms about to-day. I