trampled my flower-beds and messed my lawn beyond believing, and you've stole my paches, broken my glass, and misbehaved yourself ginerally; and if it wasn't for yer pa, and his being so vilent, I'd leave you there for an hour, Miss Ullen, I would. Pr'aps, with the Lord's mercy, it might be a warning to yer. But I don't want to have nothing to do with murder, so I'll take yer down this time; only if ever I finds yer a disgracing yerself in this misbecoming manner again, I'll leave yer there, Miss Ullen, sure as my name's Dorley. And kickin' won't do no good when you're in the wrong, miss, leastways, it won't wi' me."
He departs slowly in search of the steps, while I dangle at my ease in creeping, curdling terror, lest even now the governor may be turning the corner.
Dorley comes back at last, and disentangles me with some difficulty, and oh! with what joy do I once more plant my waggling feet on firm ground; never, never will I play the part of gentle zephyr again.
In the depths of my pocket, tenderly hoarded, fondly cherished, lurks a sixpence, which I disinter and hand to Dorley, with my lips pursed up very tight.
"There, take it," I say; "it's for you."
"No, no, Miss Ullen," says Dorley, holding it out in his earth-stained hand, "I won't deprive 'ee of it! Happen you want it worse than I do!"
"Dorley," I say, drawing myself up with dignity, "I am amazed at you! Sixpences are no object with me, or—or—shillings, or—half-crowns."
Having uttered this last astounding lie without winking, I walk away with a stately strut that I hope impresses him, and which is, I suppose, born of the occasion, for I never owned it before.
What a burning, breathless, sleepy afternoon it is! The earth seems lapped in a nerveless, luxurious, indolent slumber. The very
