dol, who can say she has not gained
another, and perhaps a worthier one?

Yet beyond doubt the two old ladies have sustained a severe shock: they
hold down their heads, and for a long time avoid each other's eyes, as
though fearing what may there be seen.

"Let us walk round the garden, Aunt Priscilla," says Monica, feeling
very sorry for them. "The evening is lovely, and the roses so sweet."

"Come then," says Miss Priscilla, who is perhaps glad to escape from her
own thoughts. And so they all wander to and fro in the pretty garden,
bending over this flower and lingering over that in a soft, idle sort of
enjoyment that belongs alone to the country.

Terence had disappeared, but, as he is not great on flowers, his
presence is not indispensable, and no one takes any notice of his
defection.

Presently they come upon the old gardener, who is also the old coachman,
upon his bended knees beside a bed. The whole garden is scrupulously
raked and scrupulously weeded till not a fault can be found. But Miss
Priscilla is one of those who deem it necessary always to keep a servant
up to his trumps.

Stooping over the bed, therefore, she carefully adjusts her glasses upon
her nose, and proceeds to examine with much minuteness the earth beneath
her. A tiny green leaf attracts her notice.

"Corney, is that a _weed_?" she asks, severely. "I certainly remember
sowing some seeds in this place; but _that_ has a weedy look."

"It's seeds, miss," says Corney, "Ye'd know it by the curl of it."

"I hope so, I _hope_ so," says Miss Priscilla, doubtfully, "but there's
a common cast about it. It reminds me of groundsel. Corney, whatever you
do, don't grow careless."

"Faix, I'm too ould a hand for that, miss," says Corney. "But, to tell
the truth, I think myself, now, not to desaive ye, that the leaf ye
mentioned is uncommon like the groundsel. You ought to be proud of yer
eyes, Miss Priscilla; they're as clear as they were twinty years ago."

Greatly mollified by this compliment, Miss Priscilla declines to scold
any more, and, the groundsel forgotten, moves onward to a smooth piece
of sward on which a cartload of large white stones from the seashore has
been ruthlessly thrown.

"What is this?" she says, indignantly, eying the stones with much
disfavor. "Corney, come here! Who flung those stones down on my green
grass?"

"The rector, miss. He sent his man wid a load of 'em, and 'tis there
they left 'em."

"A most unwarrantable