wondered if she would be there that morning.  After he had left the field, he plunged knee-deep through the weedage of his predecessor’s garden, and heart-deep into luxuriant ranks of dewy vegetables which he, in the intervals of his mental labors, should raise for his own table.  Wesley had an inherent love of gardening which he had never been in a position to gratify.  Wesley was, in fancy, eating his own green peas and squashes and things when he came in sight of the back veranda.  It was vacant, and his fancy sank in his mind like a plummet of lead.  However, he approached, and the breeze of blessing greeted him like a presence.

The parsonage was a gray old shadow of a building.  Its walls were stained with past rains, the roof showed depressions, the veranda steps were unsteady, in fact one was gone.  Wesley mounted and seated himself in one of the gnarled old rustic chairs which defied weather.  From where he sat he could see a pink and white plumage of blossoms over an orchard; even the weedy garden showed lovely lights under the triumphant June sun.  Butterflies skimmed over it, always in pairs, now and then a dew-light like a jewel gleamed out, and gave a delectable thrill of mystery.  Wesley wished the girl were there.  Then she came.  He saw a flutter of blue in the garden, then a face like a rose overtopped the weeds.  The sunlight glanced from a dark head, giving it high-lights of gold.

The girl approached.  When she saw the minister, she started, but not as if with surprise; rather as if she had made ready to start.  She stood at the foot of the steps, glowing with blushes, but still not confused.  She smiled with friendly confidence.  She was very pretty and she wore a delicious gown, if one were not a woman, to observe the lack of fashion and the faded streaks, and she carried a little silk work-bag.

Wesley rose.  He also blushed, and looked more confused than the girl.  “Good morning, Miss Dodge,” he said.  His hands twitched a little.

Fanny Dodge noted his confusion quite calmly.  “Are you busy?” said she.

“You are laughing at me, Miss Dodge.  What on earth am I busy about?”

“Oh,” said the girl.  “Of course I have eyes, and I can see that you are not writing; but I can’t see your mind, or your thoughts.  For all I know, they may be simply grinding out a sermon, and today is Saturday.  I don’t want to break up the meeting.”  She laughed.

“Come on up here,” said Wesley with camaraderie.  “You know I am not doing a blessed thing.  I can finish my sermon in an hour after dinner.  Come on up.  The breeze is heavenly.  What have you got in that bag?”

“I,” stated Fanny Dodge, mounting the steps, “have my work in my bag.  I am embroidering a center-piece which is to be sold for at least twice its value—­for I can’t embroider worth a cent—­at the fair.”  She sat down beside him, and fished out of the bag a square of white linen and some colored silks.