The hens gathered about her feet cocking their expectant eyes at her; the doves came circling round her head; the cow stared placidly, and the inquisitive horse responded affably when she offered him a handful of hay.

“How tame they all are!  I like animals, they are so contented and intelligent,” she said, as a plump dove lit on her shoulder with an impatient coo.

“That was Kitty’s pet, she always fed the fowls.  Would you like to do it?” and David offered a little measure of oats.

“Very much;” and Christie began to scatter the grain, wondering who “Kitty” was.

As if he saw the wish in her face, David added, while he shelled corn for the hens: 

“She was the little girl who was with us last.  Her father kept her in a factory, and took all her wages, barely giving her clothes and food enough to keep her alive.  The poor child ran away, and was trying to hide when Mr. Power found and sent her here to be cared for.”

“As he did me?” said Christie quickly.

“Yes, that’s a way he has.”

“A very kind and Christian way.  Why didn’t she stay?”

“Well, it was rather quiet for the lively little thing, and rather too near the city, so we got a good place up in the country where she could go to school and learn housework.  The mill had left her no time for these things, and at fifteen she was as ignorant as a child.”

“You must miss her.”

“I do very much.”

“Was she pretty?”

“She looked like a little rose sometimes,” and David smiled to himself as he fed the gray hens.

Christie immediately made a picture of the “lively little thing” with a face “like a rose,” and was uncomfortably conscious that she did not look half as well feeding doves as Kitty must have done.

Just then David handed her the basket, saying in the paternal way that half amused, half piqued her:  “It, is getting too chilly for you here:  take these in please, and I’ll bring the milk directly.”

In spite of herself she smiled, as a sudden vision of the elegant Mr. Fletcher, devotedly carrying her book or beach-basket, passed through her mind; then hastened to explain the smile, for David lifted his brows inquiringly, and glanced about him to see what amused her.

“I beg your pardon:  I’ve lived alone so much that it seems a little odd to be told to do things, even if they are as easy and pleasant as this.”

“I am so used to taking care of people, and directing, that I do so without thinking.  I won’t if you don’t like it,” and he put out his hand to take back the basket with a grave, apologetic air.

“But I do like it; only it amused me to be treated. like a little girl again, when I am nearly thirty, and feel seventy at least, life has been so hard to me lately.”

Her face sobered at the last words, and David’s instantly grew so pitiful she could not keep her eyes on it lest they should fill, so suddenly did the memory of past troubles overcome her.