“I don’t know,” I replied; “she has gone with her husband on a fortnight’s visit to Captain and Mrs. Wayne, and I’ve been silly enough to promise to have an eye to the place while they’re away.”

“Why, how delightful!” exclaimed Miss Mayton.  “Such horses!  Such flowers!  Such a cook!”

“And such children,” said I, glaring suggestively at the imps, and rescuing from Toddie a handkerchief which he had extracted from my pocket, and was waving to the breeze.

“Why, they’re the best children in the world.  Helen told me so the first time I met her this season!  Children will be children, you know.  We had three little cousins with us last summer, and I’m sure they made me look years older than I really am.”

“How young you must be, then, Miss Mayton!” said I. I suppose I looked at her as if I meant what I said, for, although she inclined her head and said, “Oh, thank you,” she didn’t seem to turn my compliment off in her usual invulnerable style.  Nothing happening in the course of conversation ever discomposed Alice Mayton for more than a hundred seconds, however, so she soon recovered her usual expression and self-command, as her next remark fully indicated.

“I believe you arranged the floral decorations at the St. Zephaniah’s Fair, last winter, Mr. Burton?  ’Twas the most tasteful display of the season.  I don’t wish to give any hints, but at Mrs. Clarkson’s, where we’re boarding, there’s not a flower in the whole garden.  I break the Tenth Commandment dreadfully every time I pass Colonel Lawrence’s garden.  Good-by, Mr. Burton.”

“Ah, thank you; I shall be delighted.  Good-by.”

“Of course you’ll call,” said Miss Mayton, as her carriage started,—­“it’s dreadfully stupid here—­no men except on Sundays.”

I bowed assent.  In the contemplation of all the shy possibilities which my short chat with Miss Mayton had suggested, I had quite forgotten my dusty clothing and the two living causes thereof.  While in Miss Mayton’s presence the imps had preserved perfect silence, but now their tongues were loosened.

“Uncle Harry,” said Budge, “do you know how to make whistles?”

“Ucken Hawwy,” murmured Toddie, “does you love dat lady?”

“No, Toddie, of course not.”

“Then you’s baddy man, an’ de Lord won’t let you go to heaven if you don’t love peoples.”

“Yes, Budge,” I answered hastily, “I do know how to make whistles, and you shall have one.”

“Lord don’t like mans what don’t love peoples,” reiterated Toddie.

“All right, Toddie,” said I.  “I’ll see if I can’t please the Lord some way.  Driver, whip up, won’t you?  I’m in a hurry to turn these youngsters over to the girl, and ask her to drop them into the bath-tub.”

I found Helen had made every possible arrangement for my comfort.  Her room commanded exquisite views of mountain-slope and valley, and even the fact that the imps’ bedroom adjoined mine gave me comfort, for I thought of the pleasure of contemplating them while they were asleep, and beyond the power of tormenting their deluded uncle.