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“She knocks you, and nips you, but she never hurts,” said Paul, when the last corn had gone.

“Now, Miriam,” said Maurice, “you come an”ave a go.”

“No,” she cried, shrinking back.

“Ha! baby. The mardy-kid!” said her brothers.

“It doesn’t hurt a bit,” said Paul. “It only just nips rather nicely.”

“No,” she still cried, shaking her black curls and shrinking.

“She dursn’t,” said Geoffrey. “She niver durst do anything except recite poitry.”

“Dursn’t jump off a gate, dursn’t tweedle,cu dursn’t go on a slide, dursn’t stop a girl hittin’ her. She can do nowt but go about thinkin’ herself somebody. ‘The Lady of the Lake.’1 Yah!” cried Maurice.

Miriam was crimson with shame and misery.

“I dare do more than you,” she cried. “You’re never anything but cowards and bullies.”

“Oh, cowards and bullies!” they repeated mincingly, mocking her speech.

“Not such a clown shall anger me,

A boor is answered silently,”

he quoted against her, shouting with laughter.

She went indoors. Paul went with the boys into the orchard, where they had rigged up a parallel bar. They did feats of strength. He was more agile than strong, but it served. He fingered a piece of apple-blossom that hung low on a swinging bough.

“I wouldn’t get the apple-blossom,” said Edgar, the eldest brother. “There’ll be no apples next year.”

“I wasn’t going to get it,” replied Paul, going away.

The boys felt hostile to him; they were more interested in their own pursuits. He wandered back to the house to look for his mother. As he went round the back, he saw Miriam kneeling in front of the hen-coop, some maize in her hand, biting her lip, and crouching in an intense attitude. The hen was eyeing her wickedly. Very gingerly she put forward her hand. The hen bobbed for her. She drew back quickly with a cry, half of fear, half of chagrin.

“It won’t hurt you,” said Paul.

She flushed crimson and started up.

“I only wanted to try,” she said in a low voice.

“See, it doesn’t hurt,” he said, and, putting only two corns in his palm, he let the hen peck, peck, peck at his bare hand. “It only makes you laugh,” he said.

She put her hand forward and dragged it away, tried again, and started back with a cry. He frowned.

“Why, I’d let her take corn from my face,” said Paul, “only she bumps a bit. She’s ever so neat. If she wasn’t, look how much ground she’d peck up every day.”

He waited grimly, and watched. At last Miriam let the bird peck from her hand. She gave a little cry—fear, and pain because of fear—rather pathetic. But she had done it, and she did it again.

“There, you see,” said the boy. “It doesn’t hurt, does it?”

She looked at him with dilated dark eyes.

“No,” she laughed, trembling.

Then she rose and went indoors. She seemed to be in some way resentful of the boy.

“He thinks I’m only a common girl,” she thought, and she wanted to prove she was a grand person like the “Lady of the Lake.”

Paul found his mother ready to go home. She smiled on her son. He took the great bunch of flowers. Mr. and Mrs. Leivers walked down the fields with them. The hills were golden with evening; deep in the woods showed the darkening purple of bluebells. It was everywhere perfectly still, save for the rustling of leaves and birds.

“But it is a beautiful place,” said Mrs. Morel.

“Yes,” answered Mr. Leivers; “it’s a nice little place, if only it weren’t for the rabbits. The pasture’s bitten down to nothing. I dunno if ever I s’ll get the rent off it.”

He clapped his hands, and the field broke into motion near the woods, brown rabbits hopping everywhere.

“Would you believe it!” exclaimed Mrs. Morel.

She and Paul went on alone together.

“Wasn’t it lovely, mother?” he said quietly.

A thin moon was coming out. His heart was full of happiness till it hurt. His mother had to chatter, because she, too, wanted to cry with happiness.

“Now wouldn’t I help that man!” she said. “Wouldn’t I see to the fowls and the young stock! And I’d learn to milk, and I’d talk with him, and I’d plan with him. My word, if I were his wife, the