Peter, it must be observed, was 'the odd man' about the farm; there is always one.

'Father will say you did quite right to let them live,' replied the little lady; 'he likes them as much as I do, for he says he remembers them always growing here, coming up year after year without troubling any one to look after them, and making the old wall a very flower-garden.'

'Well, Miss Zusie, if so be ye sez so, I s'pose I must,' he acquiesced, though I think he was greatly disappointed that he could not have his own way about it; so there we were left, and we bloomed more than ever, striving to do our best in gratitude to the little maiden.

Now, I have noticed, as a rule,—mind, every rule has exceptions,—that good deeds, like good seed, seldom fall to the ground and wither away. Both may lie fallow, for a while at least, but the flower comes up after a while, and 'with what measure ye mete, it is meted to you again.' You may not have remarked this, perhaps, but the fact holds good, proving most emphatically the sacred truth, 'Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.'

Now, when Susie saved our lives, she never thought that simple flowers could ever repay her kindness, and for some time, it is true, we did nothing, only strove to make the garden wall look gay with our sturdy buds and blossoms.

But one day, I remember, Susie sat on the lawn close by the wall on which we grew, very busy making a smart new dress for her doll, Miss Arabella, who sat propped up by a work-box at her back, with her arms straight out, and her toes turned in, but with a sweet smile upon her waxen face. They were evidently engaged in earnest conversation, for Susie kept speaking in her own voice for herself, and using a very shrill falsetto for Arabella, who, by the bye, appeared to reply only in monosyllables.

In the midst of this very entertaining discourse I heard another voice exclaiming,—

'Look 'ee 'ere, Miss Zusie, this vowl 'ave airt her vut;' and the small ploughboy I before mentioned came in at the garden gate, holding a hen in his arms.

'Oh, give it to me, Joey,' cried the little girl, full of sympathy for the wounded bird. 'How did it happen? Poor dear, poor dear!'

With that Joey poured forth a long account of the accident, to which she listened attentively, all the while soothing the lamed hen, and wrapping it up in her soft frock.