Miss Diana held out her hand, with a smile.  “I think I shall like you as well as Dick,” she said.

* * * * *

Weeks and months flew past and the household at ‘The Willows’ was a very happy one.  Unavella was in great glee over the success of her scheme.

“I used ter think,” she confided to her bosom friend, “thet boarders wuz good fer nuthin’ ‘cept ter be an aggervation an’ a plague; but I couldn’t think o’ nuthin’ else ter do, an’ I made up my mind I’d ruther put up with ’em than lose Miss Di-an, even ef their antics did make me gray-headed afore the year wuz out.  But I needn’t hev worritted.  Two sech obligin’ young fellers I never did see, an’ never expect ter agin in this world.  They don’t never seem comfortable ’cept when they’re helpin’ a body.  An’ Mr. John’s whistle ez enuff ter put sunshine inter the Deluge!  I used ter think we wuz ez happy ez birds—­Miss Di-an an’ me—­but I declare the house seems lonesum now when he leaves in the mornin’.  He’s alluz at it, whistle, whistle, whistle.  ‘Tain’t none o’ them screechin’ whistles that takes the top off of your head an’ leaves the inside a’ hummin’, but it’s jest as soft an’ sweet an’ low!  Sometimes I think he’s prayin’, it’s that lovely.  It’s my belief it puts Miss Di-an in mind o’ someone, fer she jest sets in the porch, when he’s a’ tinkerin’ round in the evenings or dig-gin’ in the gardin—­he’s never satisfied unless everything’s jest kep spick an’ span—­an’ there’s the sweetest smile on her face, an’ the dreamy look in her eyes thet folks’ eyes don’t never hev ‘cept when they’re episodin’ with their past.

“An’ the way they foller her about an’ treat her jest ez ef she wuz a princess!  I declare, it makes my heart warm.  The young one called her his little mother the other night, an’ Mr. John sez, sez he, ’Ye couldn’t hev a sweeter, Dick, nor a dearer.’  He makes me think of one o’ them folks in poetry what wuz alluz a’ ridin’ round with banners an’ a spear.”

“A knight?” suggested her friend, who had just indulged a literary taste by purchasing a paper covered edition of Sir Walter Scott.

“Yes, that’s what I mean.  An’ I sez to myself,—­’ef they wuz like he is, an’ wuz ez plenty in the Middle Ages ez they make ’em out ter be, then it’s a pity we wuzn’t back right in the center uv ’em,’ sez I.”

“Lady Di!  Lady Di!” and little Dick came hurrying into the library where Miss Diana was sitting in the gloaming.  “John wants you to come out and see if you like the new flowers he is planting.  He says I must be sure to put your shawl on, for the dew is falling.”

Miss Diana’s eyes grew misty as her little cavalier adjusted her wrap.  “Why do you give me that name, Dick?” she asked.  Only one other had ever given it to her before, in the long ago.

“What?  Lady Di?” answered the boy.  “Oh, we always call you that, John and I. Our Lady Di.  John says you make him think of the elect lady, in the Bible, you know.”