Two or three pale-blue butterflies danced drowsily in and out a cluster of honeysuckle that trailed downwards, nearly touching Thelma's shoulder, and a diminutive black kitten, with a pink ribbon round its neck, sat gravely on the garden path, washing its face with its tiny velvety paws, in that deliberate and precise fashion, common to the spoiled and petted members of its class.

Everything was still and peaceful as became a Sunday afternoon,--so that when the sound of a heavy advancing footstep disturbed the intense calm, the girl was almost nervously startled, and rose from her seat with so much precipitation, that the butterflies, who had possibly been considering whether her hair might not be some new sort of sunflower, took fright and flew far upwards, and the demure kitten scared out of its absurd self-consciousness, scrambled hastily up the nearest little tree.

The intruder on the quietude of Gueldmar's domain was the Rev.Mr.
Dyceworthy,--and as Thelma, standing erect in the porch, beheld him coming, her face grew stern and resolute, and her eyes flashed disdainfully.
Ignoring the repellant, almost defiant dignity of the girl's attitude, Mr.Dyceworthy advanced, rather out of breath and somewhat heated,--and smiling benevolently, nodded his head by way of greeting, without removing his hat.
"Ah, Froeken Thelma!" he observed condescendingly.

"And how are you to-day?
You look remarkably well--remarkably so, indeed!" And he eyed her with mild approval.
"I am well, I thank you," she returned quietly.

"My father is not in, Mr.Dyceworthy." The Reverend Charles wiped his hot face, and his smile grew wider.
"What matter ?" he inquired blandly.