But while cats were unwelcome visitors from the great brick house, we sometimes had others whom we were always glad to see.  The two young ladies of the family, together with their mother and little niece, occasionally came out for a saunter under the trees, and it was very delightful to listen to their merry chat.  So affectionate toward each other, so gentle and withal so bright and lively, they seemed to bring a streak of sunshine with them whenever they came.  Miss Dorothy, who was tall and stately, seldom sat on the grassy tufts which rose like little footstools at the base of each tree, but rambled about while talking.  This was perhaps because she disliked to rumple her beautifully starched skirts.  But Miss Katie—­impetuous, dimple-cheeked Katie, would fling herself down anywhere regardless of edged ruffles or floating sash ribbons.

“For it is clean dirt,” she laughingly said, when Miss Dorothy playfully scolded her for it.  “This kind of dirt is healthful, and it isn’t going to hurt me if a few dusty twigs or a bit of dried grass or weeds should cling to my gown.  You must remember, Sister Dorothy, there are different kinds of dirt.  I haven’t any respect for grease spots or for clothes soiled from wearing them too long.  I don’t like that kind of dirt, but to get close to dear old mother earth, and have a scent of her fresh soil once in a while is what I enjoy.  It is delightful.  I like nature too well to stand on ceremony with her.”

“You like butterflies too, don’t you, aunty?” asked little Marian.

“To be sure I do, dear.  I love all the pretty things that fly.”

“And the birdies too?” asked the child.

“Yes, indeed; I love the birds the best of all.”

“And the old cat was awful naughty when he caught the baby robin the other day and ate it up.  Wasn’t he, aunty?”

“Yes.  Tom is a cruel, bad, bad cat,” responded Miss Katie, as she squeezed Marian’s little pink hand between her own palms.  “That naughty puss gets plenty to eat in the house and there are lots of nice fat mice in the barn, and yet he slips slyly out to the orchard and takes the life of a poor, innocent little bird.”

“And it made the mamma-bird cry because her little one was dead,” added Miss Dorothy, who had drawn near.

Little Marian heaved a deep sigh and her rosy lips trembled suspiciously.  “Poor mamma-bird!  It can never have its baby bird any more,” she said, with a sob of sympathy.  “Don’t you feel sorry for it, Aunt Dorothy?”

“Yes, dear.  I feel very sorry for it.”

“And I expect the poor mamma-bird cries and cries and weeps and grieves when she comes home to supper and finds out her little children are gone forever and ever.”  And with her bright eyes dimmed with tears of pity, Marian, clasping a hand of each of the young ladies, walked slowly to the house still bewailing the fate of the robin.

My heart warmed toward these sweet young girls for their tender sympathy.  I almost wished I were a carrier pigeon, that I might devote myself hereafter to their service by bearing loving messages from them to their friends.