and that: 

Artaxerxes was a king of the Persians.  A.

and the like surprising, curious, and interesting items of news, his pen making not half so many curls, and twists as did his small, red tongue.  As he wrote, he frowned terrifically, and sighed oft betwixt whiles; and Bellew watching, where he stood outside the window, noticed that Anthea frowned also, as she bent over her accounts, and sighed wearily more than once.

It was after a sigh rather more hopeless than usual that, chancing to raise her eyes they encountered those of the watcher outside, who, seeing himself discovered, smiled, and came to lean in at the open window.

“Won’t they balance?” he enquired, with a nod toward the heap of bills, and papers before her.

“Oh yes,” she answered with a rueful little smile, “but—­on the wrong side, if you know what I mean.”

“I know,” he nodded, watching how her lashes curled against her cheek.

“If only we had done better with our first crop of wheat!” she sighed.

“Job Jagway said it was mouldy, you know,—­that’s why Adam punched him in the—­”

“Georgy,—­go on with your work, sir!”

“Yes, Auntie!” And immediately Small Porges’ pen began to scratch, and his tongue to writhe and twist as before.

“I’m building all my hopes, this year, on the hops,” said Anthea, sinking her head upon her hand, “if they should fail—­”

“Well?” enquired Bellew, with his gaze upon the soft curve of her throat.

“I—­daren’t think of it!”

“Then don’t—­let us talk of something else—­”

“Yes,—­of Aunt Priscilla!” nodded Anthea, “she is in the garden.”

“And pray who is Aunt Priscilla?”

“Go and meet her.”

“But—­”

“Go and find her—­in the orchard!” repeated Anthea, “Oh do go, and leave us to our work.”

Thus it was that turning obediently into the orchard, and looking about, Bellew presently espied a little, bright-eyed old lady who sat beneath the shadow of “King Arthur” with a rustic table beside her upon which stood a basket of sewing.  Now, as he went, he chanced to spy a ball of worsted that had fallen by the way, and stooping, therefore, he picked it up, while she watched him with her quick, bright eyes.

“Good morning, Mr. Bellew!” she said in response to his salutation, “it was nice of you to trouble to pick up an old woman’s ball of worsted.”  As she spoke, she rose, and dropped him a courtesy, and then, as he looked at her again, he saw that despite her words, and despite her white hair, she was much younger, and prettier than he had thought.

“I am Miss Anthea’s house-keeper,” she went on, “I was away when you arrived, looking after one of Miss Anthea’s old ladies,—­pray be seated.  Miss Anthea,—­bless her dear heart!—­calls me her aunt, but I’m not really—­Oh dear no!  I’m no relation at all!  But I’ve lived with her long enough to feel as if I was her aunt, and her uncle, and her father, and her mother—­all rolled into one,—­though I should be rather small to be so many,—­shouldn’t I?” and she laughed so gaily, and unaffectedly, that Bellew laughed too.