even Lesbia gave a
little desultory help. There was a thick, bowery lime tree under whose
shade it was delightful to have tea in summer, or to lie reading books
on hot Sundays; and there was a fascinating corner of the old wall,
which the girls called "the rampart", from whence it was possible to
command an excellent view of the main road--a great convenience
sometimes to the younger ones, who would keep watch, and beat a hasty
retreat if they saw an unwelcome visitor arriving, leaving Beatrice to
offer hospitality alone.

Gwen was the worst sinner in this respect. She was bashful, and hated
to have to say "How do you do?" to callers. In spite of Beatrice's
efforts to train her in social ways, she would fly at the very
approach of a flower-trimmed hat or a white parasol.

"You scuttle off like a rabbit into its burrow," said Beatrice
indignantly on one occasion; "and if you're caught, you behave in such
a silly, awkward way that I'm ashamed of you. People will think you
haven't been properly brought up, and blame me. It's not my fault that
you've got no manners."

"I feel as if I don't know where to look when people speak to me, and
as if my hands and feet were too big," protested Gwen. "I can't help
shuffling and wrinkling up my forehead--I can't indeed! You're
awfully hard on me, Bee!"

"Perhaps she'll grow a little more accustomed to her hands and feet
when she's older," suggested Winnie, the peacemaker.

"They're useful for catching chickens at present, and that ought to be
enough for you, Win," laughed Gwen. "You'd have lost those white
Leghorns if I hadn't rescued them."

Winnie was considered chief "henwife" at the Parsonage. She could not
give as much time to the poultry as she wished, and had to delegate
many of her duties to Beatrice, or Nellie, the maid, but nevertheless
held herself responsible for the welfare of her feathered flock. On
Saturdays she delighted to array herself in an overall pinafore and
carry out improvements in the hen-yard. Armed with hammer, nails, and
pieces of wire netting, she would turn old packing-cases into chicken
coops and nesting boxes, or make neat contrivances for separating
various fussy matrons with rival broods of chicks. Winnie was really
wonderfully handy and clever, and albeit her carpentry was naturally
of a rather rough-and-ready description, it served the purpose for
which she designed it, and saved calling in the services of the
village joiner, an economy whic