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 our virtuous actions and the good doings of each other, when we happen to notice them.

We had just done, and we were looking at the beautiful production of our honest labor, when the cottage door burst open, and the soldier's widowed mother came out like a wild tornado, and her eyes looked like upas-trees—death to the beholder.

"You wicked, meddlesome, nasty children!" she said, "ain't you got enough of your own good ground to runch up and spoil but you must come into my little lot?"

Some of us were deeply alarmed, but we stood firm.

"We have only been weeding your garden," Dora said; "we wanted to do something to help you."

"Dratted little busybodies," she said. It was indeed hard, but every one in Kent says "dratted" when they are cross. "It's my turnips," she went on, "you've hoed up, and my cabbages. My turnips that my boy sowed afore he went. There, get along with you, do, afore I come at you with my broom-handle."

She did come at us with her broom-handle as she spoke, and even the boldest turned and fled. Oswald was even the boldest.

"They looked like weeds right enough," he said.

And Dicky said, "It all comes of trying to do golden deeds."

This was when we were out in the road.

As we went along, in a silence full of gloomy remorse, we met the postman. He said: