Venia Turnbull in a quiet, unobtrusive fashion was enjoying herself. The cool living-room at Turnbull's farm was a delightful contrast to the hot sunshine without, and the drowsy humming of bees floating in at the open window was charged with hints of slumber to the middle-aged. From her seat by the window she watched with amused interest the efforts of her father--kept from his Sunday afternoon nap by the assiduous attentions of her two admirers--to maintain his politeness. "Father was so pleased to see you both come in," she said, softly; "it's very dull for him here of an afternoon with only me."…
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