great idle wasp--"'

'Busy bee!' cried the child, scandalized.

By wonderful blunders, and ingenious halts, he drew her into prompting
him throughout, then exclaimed, 'There! you know it much better. I
thought you were a clever little girl! Come, won't you say it once, and
let me hear how well it sounds?'

She was actually flattered into repeating it perfectly.

'Very well. That's right. Now, don't you think you had better tell Miss
Martindale you are sorry to have kept her all this time?'

She hung her head, and Theodora tried to give him a hint that the
apology was by no means desired; but without regarding this, he
continued, 'Do you know I am come from Turkey, and there are plenty of
ladies there, who go out to walk with a sack over their heads, but I
never saw one of them sit on a tombstone to hear a little girl say the
Busy Bee. Should you like to live there?'

'No.'

'Do you suppose Miss Martindale liked to sit among the nettles on old
Farmer Middleton's tombstone?'

'No.'

'Why did she do it then? Was it to plague you?'

'Cause I wouldn't say my hymn.'

'I wonder if it is not you that have been plaguing Miss Martindale all
the time. Eh? Come, aren't you sorry you kept her sitting all this time
among the nettles when she might have been walking to Colman's Weir, and
gathering such fine codlings and cream as Mrs. Martindale has there, and
all because you would not say a hymn that you knew quite well? Wasn't
that a pity?'

'Yes,' and the eyes looked up ingenuously.

'Come and tell her you are sorry. Won't you? There, that's right,' and
he dictated as she repeated after him, as if under a spell, 'I'm sorry,
ma'am, that I was sulky and naughty; I'll say it next Sunday, and make
no fuss.'

'There, that will do. I knew you would be good at last,' said Percy,
patting her shoulder, while Theodora signified her pardon, and they
turned homewards, but had made only a few steps before the gallop of
clumsy shoes followed, and there stood Ellen, awkwardly presenting a
bunch of the willow herb. Theodora gave well-pleased thanks, and told
her she should take them as a sign she was really sorry and meant to do
better.

'And as a trophy of the force of Percy's pathetic picture of Miss
Martindale's seven flounces among the nettles on Farmer Middleton's
tombstone,' said Arthur.

'You certainly are very much obliged to him,' said her father.

'And most ungratefully she won't confess it,' said Arthur.

'I des