"And what way are ye the day, Miss Denis?"
"Busy, Darby, terribly busy; I have half the asparagus to tie up yet, and not a plum picked."
"Shure 'tis nothing but divarshion for the like of yees," he rejoined contemptuously. "An I would not grudge to see you young ladies so entirely fond of flowers and gardening—'Tis a nice quiet taste."
"Divarshion, indeed? There's little divarshion in picking gallons of fruit in the blazing sun—and as to the wasps! but I'm in a hurry, Darby, I have not a moment to spare. Please let me pass," she said, now walking into the little office, where she discovered Dido seated at her brass-bound bureau, surrounded by papers, and dissolved in tears.
"What on earth is the matter?" she inquired, laying her hand on her cousin's shoulder.
"Nothing—nothing at all," hurriedly drying her eyes, and averting her face.
"Come, Dido, I am certain that you are the last girl to cry for nothing. What is it? Won't you tell me? Two heads are better than one. Is it these accounts?"
"It is just this, Helen," wheeling round with sudden energy, "I've come to the conclusion that it is hopeless to go on struggling any longer, and trying to make both ends meet; I strive, and strive, to keep out of debt—we spend next to nothing on ourselves, as you know, and when I think I am getting my head above water at last, down comes something and pushes me under, such as a big bill that I never expected, and that nearly breaks my heart. Look at this," holding out a rather dirty scrawl, "here is one now, and Darby says it must be paid at once. And I did not even know it was owing. It's for seed-potatoes, and guano, and wire to keep out the rabbits—altogether eleven pounds," she concluded with a little sob.
"Eleven pounds!" ejaculated her cousin, taking it up and examining it.
"I notice that it is made out by Darby—does not that strike you as rather peculiar?"