in his broad-brimmed hat, and offered the glass
like a poisoned goblet.

Nan took it, and went smiling away. But the lane might have been the
Desert of Sahara, for all she knew of it; and she would have passed
her father as unconcernedly as if he had been an apple-tree, had he
not called out,--

"Stand and deliver, little woman!"

She obeyed the venerable highway-man, and followed him to and fro,
listening to his plans and directions with a mute attention that quite
won his heart.

"That hop-pole is really an ornament now, Nan; this sage-bed needs
weeding,--that's good work for you girls; and, now I think of it,
you'd better water the lettuce in the cool of the evening, after I'm
gone."

To all of which remarks Nan gave her assent; though the hop-pole took
the likeness of a tall figure she had seen in the porch, the sage-bed,
curiously enough, suggested a strawberry ditto, the lettuce vividly
reminded her of certain vegetable productions a basket had brought,
and the bob-o-link only sung in his cheeriest voice, "Go home, go
home! he is there!"

She found John--he having made a freemason of himself, by assuming her
little apron--meditating over the partially spread table, lost in
amaze at its desolate appearance; one half its proper paraphernalia
having been forgotten, and the other half put on awry. Nan laughed
till the tears ran over her cheeks, and John was gratified at the
efficacy of his treatment; for her face had brought a whole harvest of
sunshine from the garden, and all her cares seemed to have been lost
in the windings of the lane.

"Nan, are you in hysterics?" cried Di, appearing, book in hand. "John,
you absurd man, what are you doing?"

"I'm helpin' the maid of all work, please marm." And John dropped a
curtsy with his limited apron.

Di looked ruffled, for the merry words were a covert reproach; and
with her usual energy of manner and freedom of speech she tossed
"Wilhelm" out of the window, exclaiming, irefully,--

"That's always the way; I'm never where I ought to be, and never think
of anything till it's too late; but it's all Goethe's fault. What does
he write books full of smart 'Phillinas' and interesting 'Meisters'
for? How can I be expected to remember that Sally's away, and people
must eat, when I'm hearing the 'Harper' and little 'Mignon'? John, how
dare you come here and do my work, instead of shaking me and telling
me to do it myself? Take that toasted child away, and fan her lik