ist, they are treating each other to somewhat
demonstrative embraces.

At a few yards' distance another little circle, of more symmetrical
outlines, and comprising both sexes, are standing with linked hands. A
shame-faced young maiden is carrying a little cushion around her
companions. They are playing the "cushion game."

At one corner of the field there is a thicket overgrown with wild
roses, white and red. Robbie Anderson, who has just escaped from a
rebellious gang of lads who have been climbing on his shoulders and
clinging to his legs, is trying to persuade Liza Branthwaite that
there is something curious and wonderful lying hidden within this
flowery ambush.

"It's terrible nice," he says, rather indefinitely. "Come, lass, come
and see."

Liza refuses plump.

The truth is that Liza has a shrewd suspicion that the penalty of
acquiescence would be a kiss. Now, she has no particular aversion to
that kind of commerce, but since Robbie is so eager, she has resolved,
like a true woman, that his appetite shall be whetted by a temporary
disappointment.

"Not I," she says, with arms akimbo and a rippling laugh of knowing
mockery. Presently her sprightly little feet are tripping away.

Still encircled by half a score of dogs, Robbie returns to the middle
of the meadow, where the wrestlers have given way to some who are
preparing for a race up the fell. Robbie throws off his coat and cap,
and straps a belt about his waist.

"Why, what's this?" inquires Liza, coming up at the moment, with
mischief in her eyes, and bantering her sweetheart with roguish jeers.
"_You_ going to run! Why, you are only a bit of a boy, you know. How
can _you_ expect to win?"

"Just you wait and see, little lass," says Robbie, with undisturbed
good humor.

"You'll slidder all the way down the fell, sure enough," saves Liza.

"All right; just you get a cabbish-skrunt poultice ready for my broken
shins," says Robbie.

"I would scarce venture if I were you," continues Liza, to the vast
amusement of the bystanders. "Wait till you're a man, Robbie."

The competitors--there are six of them--are now stationed; the signal
is given, and away they go.

The fell is High Seat, and it is steep and rugged. The first to round
the "man" at the summit and reach the meadow again wins the prize.

Over stones, across streams, tearing through thickets, through belts
of trees--look how they go! Now they are lost to the sight of the
spectators below;