“Marching Through Georgia,” egregiously distorted upon the mouth-organ. Peering down from my coign of vantage, I espied Miss Berrith seated upon a fallen tree, her fingers busy with some intricacy of fancy-work, and what I soon learned was a volume of Longfellow perched, tent-like, upon her knee.
“How do you do?” I called.
She looked about her, with a little start of surprise. “Is that you, Mr. Sands?” she answered. “Wherever are you?”
“Up here, behind the barberry-bush,” said I. “I’ve been leaves-dropping.” And I scrambled rapidly down, to find her blushing not unattractively.
I think that at this point it is appropriate to mention a certain alteration in Miss Berrith which I had begun to notice, and which, if I may be permitted the expression, friendlied my feeling for her to a very marked degree. It may have been due to a simple regard for comfort as the weather had grown warmer,
