“Mistletoe, is it, Miss? Ahem!” cried Finn, resting one little fist upon her hip,—and stretching out the other—“Tableau—young Druid priestess about to cut the sacred plant with a fern trowel.”
“Fin, dear, do come down. Don’t touch it.”
“Not touch it? But I will. There!” she cried, tearing off a piece of the pretty parasite. “I’ll wear that in my hat all the way home as a challenge to nobody, and on purpose to make Aunt Matty cross. She’ll—”
“Hist, Fin; oh, be quiet,” whispered Tiny.
“Eh? What’s the matter?” cried Fin, from her perch.
“Oh, pray be quiet; here’s somebody coming.”
“Never mind,” said Fin. “You stand behind the tree—they can’t see us—till I shout ‘Hallo!’”
But Fin kept very quiet, peering down squirrel-wise, as a step was heard coming along the lane, and she caught glimpses through the trees of a man in a rough tweed suit and soft felt hat. The face was that of a keen, earnest man of eight-and-forty, with a full beard, just touched by life’s frost, sharp dark eyes, and altogether a countenance not handsome, but likely to win confidence.
The newcomer was walking with an easy stride, humming scraps of some ditty, and he swung by his side an ordinary tin can, holding about a quart of some steaming compound.
“It’s Saint Timothy,” whispered Fin, from her perch. “Keep close.”