"It is for me," he answered, and, as though to prove it, turned the envelope so that she could see the address, "Mr. Michael Martin, Somerset Lane."
Michael somehow seemed rather an unexpected person to be receiving telegrams, but he was in one of his silent moods, unfortunately, and did not offer to tell his news.
"I am needing help in the garden," was all he condescended to say as he pocketed the envelope; "could you give me a hand with pulling the lettuce? Miss Miranda has not been able to come inside the place for a week."
"I'll just go in and speak to her first," Elizabeth said, a remark that seemed to displease him greatly.
"As you will," he returned, shrugging his shoulders grumpily, "but it will be dark before long and plenty of time for visiting then. It will be black darkness, too, for there is no moon now."
With a sigh Betsey agreed that he was probably right and that he should, at any rate, be humored. The garden did indeed look neglected and in want of the care Miss Miranda was accustomed to give it. The very hens and ducks seemed to be moping and less cheerful in their clucks and quackings, as though they missed their mistress and found the unsympathetic Michael a very sorry substitute. When Betsey was once established between the let-
