ow it had been a deep-rooted conviction of mine that none but the
gulls and I really and truly liked the wind. 'Fishermen are muffs,' I
used to say; 'they talk about the wind as though it were an enemy,
just because it drowns one or two of 'em now and then. Anybody can
like sunshine; muffs can like sunshine; it takes a gull or a man to
like the wind!'

Such had been my egotism. But here was a girl who liked it! We
reached the gate of the garden in front of Tom's cottage, and then
we both stopped, looking over the neatly-kept flower-garden and the
white thatched cottage behind it, up the walls of which the
grape-vine leaves were absorbing the brilliance of the sunlight and
softening it. Wynne was a gardener as well as an organist, and had
gardens both in the front and at the back of his cottage, which was
surrounded by fruit-trees. Drunkard as he was, his two passions,
music and gardening, saved him from absolute degradation and ruin.
His garden was beautifully kept, and I have seen him deftly pruning
his vines when in such a state of drink that it was wonderful how he
managed to hold a priming-knife. Winifred opened the gate, and we
passed in. Wynne's little terrier, Snap, came barking to meet us.

There was an air of delicious peacefulness about the garden. This
also tended to soften that hardness of temper which only cripples who
have once rejoiced in their strength can possibly know, I hope.

'I like to see you look so,' said the little girl, as I melted
entirely under these sweet influences. 'You looked so cross before
that I was nearly afraid of you.'

And she took hold of my hand, not hesitatingly, but frankly. The
little fingers clasped mine. I looked at them. They were much more
sun-tanned than her face. The little rosy nails were shaped like
filbert nuts.

'Why were you not _quite_ afraid of me?' I asked.

'Because,' said she, 'under the crossness I saw that you had great
love-eyes like Snap's all the while. _I_ saw it!' she said, and
laughed with delight at her great wisdom. Then she said with a sudden
gravity, 'You didn't mean to make my father cry, did you, little
boy?'

'No,' I said.

'And you love him?' said she.

I hesitated, for I had never told a lie in my life. My business
relations with Tom had been of an entirely unsatisfactory character,
and the idea of any one's loving the beery scamp presented itself in
a ludicrous light. I got out of the difficulty by saying,

'I mean to love Tom ve