Paul. “Just like Canada.”

“Isn’t it beautiful!” said Mrs. Morel, looking round.

“See that heron—see—see her legs?”

He directed his mother, what she must see and what not. And she was quite content.

“But now,” she said, “which way? He told me through the wood.”

The wood, fenced and dark, lay on their left.

“I can feel a bit of a path this road,” said Paul. “You’ve got town feet, somehow or other, you have.”

They found a little gate, and soon were in a broad green alley of the wood, with a new thicket of fir and pine on one hand, an old oak glade dipping down on the other. And among the oaks the bluebells stood in pools of azure, under the new green hazels, upon a pale fawn floor of oak-leaves. He found flowers for her.

“Here’s a bit of new-mown hay,” he said; then, again, he brought her forget-me-nots. And, again, his heart hurt with love, seeing her hand, used with work, holding the little bunch of flowers he gave her. She was perfectly happy.

But at the end of the riding was a fence to climb. Paul was over in a second.

“Come,” he said, “let me help you.”

“No, go away. I will do it in my own way.”

He stood below with his hands up ready to help her. She climbed cautiously.

“What a way to climb!” he exclaimed scornfully, when she was safely to earth again.

“Hateful stiles!” she cried.

“Dufferct of a little woman,” he replied, “who can’t get over ’em.”

In front, along the edge of the wood, was a cluster of low red farm buildings. The two hastened forward. Flush with the wood was the apple orchard, where blossom was falling on the grindstone. The pond was deep under a hedge and overhanging oak trees. Some cows stood in the shade. The farm and buildings, three sides of a quadrangle, embraced the sunshine towards the wood. It was very still.

Mother and son went into the small railed garden, where was a scent of red gillivers. By the open door were some floury loaves, put out to cool. A hen was just coming to peck them. Then, in the doorway suddenly appeared a girl in a dirty apron. She was about fourteen years old, had a rosy dark face, a bunch of short black curls, very fine and free, and dark eyes; shy, questioning, a little resentful of the strangers, she disappeared. In a minute another figure appeared, a small, frail woman, rosy, with great dark brown eyes.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, smiling with a little glow, “you’ve come, then. I am glad to see you.” Her voice was intimate and rather sad.

The two women shook hands.

“Now are you sure we’re not a bother to you?” said Mrs. Morel. “I know what a farming life is.”

“Oh no! We’re only too thankful to see a new face, it’s so lost up here.”

“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Morel.

They were taken through into the parlour—a long, low room, with a great bunch of guelder-roses in the fireplace. There the women talked, whilst Paul went out to survey the land. He was in the garden smelling the gillivers and looking at the plants, when the girl came out quickly to the heap of coal which stood by the fence.

“I suppose these are cabbage-roses?” he said to her, pointing to the bushes along the fence.

She looked at him with startled, big brown eyes.

“I suppose they are cabbage-roses when they come out?” he said.

“I don’t know,” she faltered. “They’re white with pink middles.”

“Then they’re maiden-blush.”

Miriam flushed. She had a beautiful warm colouring.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“You don’t have much in your garden,” he said.

“This is our first year here,” she answered, in a distant, rather superior way, drawing back and going indoors. He did not notice, but went his round of exploration. Presently his mother came out, and they went through the buildings. Paul was hugely delighted.

“And I suppose you have the fowls and calves and pigs to look after?” said Mrs. Morel to Mrs. Leivers.

“No,” replied the little woman. “I can’t find time to look after cattle, and I’m not used to it. It’s as much as I can do to keep going in the house.”

“Well, I suppose it is,” said Mrs. Morel. Presently the girl came out.

“Tea is ready, mother,” she said in a musical, quiet voice.

“Oh, thank you, Miriam, then we’ll come,” replied her mother, almost ingratiatingly. “Would you care to have tea now, Mrs. Morel?”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Morel. “Whenever it’s ready.”

Paul and his mother and Mrs. Leivers had tea