the ministry.

Well, at last, we got our two fires started, and the tablecloth
spread; and the coffee tasted so good I just hoped Mr. Flint would
come to have some, because he made some disagreeable remarks in the
morning on the subject of picnics. Some people are never satisfied
unless they can spoil the enjoyment of others.

While we were eating, everybody was jolly and all went well, except
that Philip would tell stories,--Western stories about "commercial
gents" and "drummer hotels" and such things. He tells a story very
well; but he also tells it very long. With the tact upon which I
justly pride myself, I tried to shut him up or draw him off; but each
time Winifred would bring him right back, with "What was it you were
just going to tell, Mr. Brady?" or "As you were saying when Miss
Standish began," I was a good deal annoyed, for I couldn't quite make
out whether she was really interested, or whether she was making fun
of us both. Now I have a very keen sense of humor; but I don't like a
joke at my expense. At last Philip offered to give us a comic poem
from the "Bison Spike;" but _that_ I _couldn't_ stand; and I pretended
that the coffee was boiling over, and Winifred jumped up to attend to
it. Philip, of course, went to her assistance, and afterward, as he
stood before the fire with Winifred beside him, I could not help
thinking what a fine looking couple they would make. His golf suit
brought out the fine proportions of his stalwart figure. The firelight
played over his firm chin, his broad, square forehead, and his frank,
kind eyes. He would make a good husband for any girl; and a judicious
wife could soon break him of his habit of telling stories.

I dare say they would have had an interesting talk, if Ben Bradford
had not come up with his hands full of stone chips, which he calls
arrowheads. That ridiculous boy walks the furrows of old Marsden's
potato-fields for hours together, with the sun blistering the back of
his neck, quite contented if he brings home a dirty bit of stone,
which his imagination fits out with points and grooves. At Flying
Point, he had apparently reaped a rich harvest of these treasures. His
companions inspected them with civil but languid curiosity. While they
were turning them this way and that, and striving hard to be
convinced that the bulkiest had undoubtedly been employed by the
Indians as a pestle for corn-grinding, we heard the grating of a boat
on the beach. Of course it was