a tender Spirit-leading, that she winnowed them and chose the
best, and had so been kept a little out of the drift and hurry that
might else have frothed away the hours? "Give us our daily bread," "Lead
us not into temptation,"--they have to do with each other, if we "know
the daily bread when we see it." But that also is of the grace of God.

There was the beginning of fruit under the leaf with Leslie Goldthwaite;
and the fine life-current was setting itself that way with its best
impulse and its rarest particles.

The pincushion was well filled with the delicate, bristling,
tiny-headed needles, when Miss Craydocke appeared, walking across, under
her great brown sun-umbrella, from the hotel.

"If you've nothing else to do, my dears, suppose we go over to the pines
together? Where's Miss Jeannie? Wouldn't she like it? All the breeze
there is haunts them always."

"I'm always ready for the pines," said Leslie. "Here, Dakie, I hope
you'll catch a butterfly for every pin. Oh, now I think of it, have you
found your _elephant_?"

"Yes, half way up the garret-stairs. I can't feed him comfortably, Miss
Leslie. He wants to eat incessantly, and the elm-leaves wilt so quickly,
if I bring them in, that the first thing I know, he's out of proper
provender and off on a raid. He needs to be on the tree; but then I
should lose him."

Leslie thought a minute. "You might tie up a branch with
mosquito-netting," she said.

"Isn't that bright? I'll go right and do it,--only I haven't any
netting," said he.

"Mrs. Linceford has. I'll go and beg a piece for you. And then, if
you'll just sit here a minute, I'll come, Miss Craydocke."

When she came back, she brought Jeannie with her. To use a vulgar
proverb, Jeannie's nose was rather out of joint since the Haughtleys had
arrived. Ginevra Thoresby was quite engrossed with them, and this often
involved Imogen. There was only room for six in Captain Green's wagon,
and nothing had been said to Jeannie about the drive to Minster Rock.

Leslie had hanging upon her finger, also, the finest and whitest and
most graceful of all possible little splint baskets, only just big
enough to carry a bit of such work as was in it now,--a strip of sheer,
delicate grass-linen, which needle and thread, with her deft guidance,
were turning into a cobweb border, by a weaving of lace-lines, strong,
yet light, where the woof of the original material had been drawn out.
It was "done for odd-minute work, and