"It's seeds, miss," says Corney, "Ye'd know it by the curl of it."
"I hope so, I hope so," says Miss Priscilla, doubtfully, "but there's a common cast about it. It reminds me of groundsel. Corney, whatever you do, don't grow careless."
"Faix, I'm too ould a hand for that, miss," says Corney. "But, to tell the truth, I think myself, now, not to desaive ye, that the leaf ye mentioned is uncommon like the groundsel. You ought to be proud of yer eyes, Miss Priscilla; they're as clear as they were twinty years ago."
Greatly mollified by this compliment, Miss Priscilla declines to scold any more, and, the groundsel forgotten, moves onward to a smooth piece of sward on which a cartload of large white stones from the seashore has been ruthlessly thrown.
"What is this?" she says, indignantly, eying the stones with much disfavor. "Corney, come here! Who flung those stones down on my green grass?"
"The rector, miss. He sent his man wid a load of 'em, and 'tis there they left 'em."
"A most unwarrantable proceeding!" says Miss Priscilla, who is in her managing mood. "What did Mr. Warren mean by that?"
"Don't you think it was kind of him to draw them for our rookery, my dear Priscilla?" says Miss Penelope, suggestively.
"No, I don't," says Miss Priscilla. "To bring cartloads of nasty large stones and fling them down upon my velvet grass on which I pride myself (though you may think nothing of it, Penelope) is not kind. I must say it was anything but nice,—anything but gentlemanly."
"My dear, he is quite a gentleman, and a very good man."