to do?” laughed Fin. “Why, climb this tree;” and she got a step higher.
“Oh, Fin, how foolish! Whatever for? Suppose some one came by?”
“Nobody comes along here at this time of the day, my dear; so here goes, and if I fall pick up my pieces, and carry them safely home to dear Aunt Matty. ‘And the dicky-bird sang in the tree,’” she trilled out, as step by step she drew herself up into the crown of the stumpy, gnarled pollard.
“Oh, Fin!” exclaimed her sister.
“Its all right, Miss Timidity. I’m safe, and I came on purpose,” cried Fin, from up in her perch, her face glowing, and eyes sparkling with merriment.
“But what are you trying to do?”
“To get some of this, sweet innocent. You can’t see, I suppose, what it is?”
“No, indeed, I cannot,” said Tiny – “yes, I can. Why, it’s mistletoe.”
“Mistletoe, is it, Miss? Ahem!” cried Finn, resting one little fist upon her hip, – and stretching out the other – “Tableau – young Druid priestess about to cut the sacred plant with a fern trowel.”
“Fin, dear, do come down. Don’t touch it.”
“Not touch it? But I will. There!” she cried, tearing off a piece of the pretty parasite. “I’ll wear that in my hat all the way home as a challenge to nobody, and on purpose to make Aunt Matty cross. She’ll – ”
“Hist, Fin; oh, be quiet,” whispered Tiny.
“Eh? What’s the matter?” cried Fin, from her perch.
“Oh, pray be quiet; here’s somebody coming.”
“Never mind,” said Fin. “You stand behind the tree – they can’t see us – till I shout ‘Hallo!’”
But Fin kept very quiet, peering down squirrel-wise, as a step was heard coming along the lane, and she caught glimpses through the trees of a man in a rough tweed suit and soft felt hat. The face was that of a keen, earnest man of eight-and-forty, with a full beard, just touched by life’s frost, sharp dark eyes, and altogether a countenance not handsome, but likely to win confidence.
The newcomer was walking with an easy stride, humming scraps of some ditty, and he swung by his side an ordinary tin can, holding about a quart of some steaming compound.
“It’s Saint Timothy,” whispered Fin, from her perch. “Keep close.”
Tiny drew her dress closer together, and pressed to the tree trunk, looking terribly guilty, while her sister went on watching.
The steps came nearer, and the stepper’s eyes were busy with a keen look for everything, as he seemed to feast on the beauties of Nature around him.
“‘I love the merry, merry sunshine,’” he sang, in a bold, bluff voice; “and – Hallo, what the dickens have we here?” he cried, stopping short, and setting two hearts beating quickly. “Lady’s basket and ferns dug up – yes, within the last hour. Why, that must be – Hallo, I spy, hi!”
For as he spoke his eyes had been wandering about, amongst the brakes and bushes, and he had caught sight of a bit of muslin dress peeping out from behind a gnarled oak.
The result of his summons was that the scrap of dress was softly drawn out of sight, and a voice from up in the ties whispered —
“Oh, go down, Tiny, and then he won’t see me.”
“Hallo! whispers in the wind,” cried the newcomer, glancing higher, and seeing a bit of Fin. “Is it a bird? By Jove, I wish I’d a gun. No: poachers – trespassers. Here, you fellows, come out!”
Jenkles’s Confession
Sam Jenkles always boasted that he never kept anything from his wife; but he was silent for two days; and then, after a hard day’s work, he was seated in his snug kitchen, watching the browning of a half-dozen fine potatoes in a Dutch oven before the fire, when Mrs Jenkles, a plump, bustling little woman, who was stitching away at a marvellous rate, her needle clicking at every stroke, suddenly exclaimed —
“Sam, you’d better give me that two pound you’ve got, and I’ll put it with the rest.”
Sam didn’t answer, only tapped his pipe on the hob.
Mrs Jenkles glanced at him, and then said —
“Did you hear what I said, Sam?”
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t you give it me? Draw that oven back an inch.”
“Aint got it – only half a sov,” said Sam, leaving the potatoes to burn.
Mrs Jenkles dropped her work upon her lap, and her face grew very red.
“Didn’t you say, Sam, that if I’d trust you, you wouldn’t do so any more?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve broke your word, Sam.”
“I aint, ’pon my soul, I aint, Sally,” cried Sam, earnestly. “I’ve had my pint for dinner, and never touched a drop more till I had my pint at home.”
“Then where’s that money?”
“Spent it,” said Sam, laconically.
“Yes, at the nasty public-houses, Sam. An’ it’s too bad, and when I’d trusted you!”
“Wrong!” said Sam.
“Then where is it?”
“Fooled it away.”
“Yes, of course. But I didn’t expect it, Sam; I didn’t, indeed.”
“All your fault,” said Sam.
“Yes, for trusting you,” said Mrs Jenkles, bitterly. “Nice life we lead: you with the worst horse and the worst cab on the rank, and me with the worst husband.”
“Is he, Sally?” said Sam, with a twinkle of the eye.
“Yes,” said Mrs Jenkles, angrily; “and that makes it all the worse, when he might be one of the best. Oh, Sam,” she said, pitifully, “do I ever neglect you or your home?”
“Not you,” he said, throwing down his pipe, and looking round at the shining tins, bright fireplace, and general aspect of simple comfort and cleanliness. “You’re the best old wife in the world.”
And he got up and stood behind her chair with his arms round her neck.
“Don’t touch me, Sam. I’m very, very much hurt.”
“Well, it was all your fault, little woman,” he said, holding the comely face, so that his wife could not look round at him.
“And how, pray?” said she.
“Didn’t you send me up to see that poor woman as Ratty knocked down?”
