The afternoon heat was so great that the song-birds were hushed, and in hiding under the cool green leaves,--the clambering roses round the porch hung down their bright heads for sheer faintness,--and the only sounds to be heard were the subdued coo-cooing of the doves on the roof and the soft trickling rush of a little mountain stream that flowed through the grounds.

Some what surprised, though not abashed, at the evident "not-at-home" look of the farm-house, Mr.Dyceworthy rapped loudly at the rough oaken door with his knuckles, there being no such modern convenience as a bell or a knocker.

He waited sometime before he was answered, repeating his summons violently at frequent intervals, and swearing irreligiously under his breath as he did so.

But at last the door was flung sharply open, and the tangle-haired, rosy-cheeked Britta confronted him with an aspect which was by no means encouraging or polite.

Her round blue eyes sparkled saucily, and she placed her bare, plump, red arms, wet with recent soapsuds, akimbo on her sturdy little hips, with an air that was decidedly impertinent.
"Well, what do you want ?" she demanded with rude abruptness.
Mr.Dyceworthy regarded her in speechless dignity.