port in, was
shallow, and by no means adapted for the recreation of so large a being
as myself; it was, moreover, exposed, though I saw nobody at hand, nor
heard a single human voice or sound. Following the winding of the brook,
I left the meadow, and, passing through two or three thickets, came to a
place where between lofty banks the water ran deep and dark, and there I
bathed, imbibing new tone and vigour into my languid and exhausted frame.

Having put on my clothes, I returned by the way I had come to my vehicle
beneath the oak tree. From thence, for want of something better to do, I
strolled up the hill, on the top of which stood the farm-house; it was a
large and commodious building built principally of stone, and seeming of
some antiquity, with a porch, on either side of which was an oaken bench.
On the right was seated a young woman with a book in her hand, the same
who had brought the tray to my friends and myself.

'Good-day,' said I, 'pretty damsel, sitting in the farm porch.'

'Good-day,' said the girl, looking at me for a moment, and then fixing
her eyes on her book.

'That's a nice book you are reading,' said I.

The girl looked at me with surprise. 'How do you know what book it is?'
said she.

'How do I know--never mind; but a nice book it is--no love, no fortune-
telling in it.'

The girl looked at me half offended. 'Fortune-telling!' said she, 'I
should think not. But you know nothing about it'; and she bent her head
once more over the book.

'I tell you what, young person,' said I, 'I know all about that book;
what will you wager that I do not?'

'I never wager,' said the girl.

'Shall I tell you the name of it,' said I, 'O daughter of the dairy? '

The girl half started. 'I should never have thought,' said she, half
timidly, 'that you could have guessed it.'

'I did not guess it,' said I, 'I knew it; and meet and proper it is that
you should read it.'

'Why so?' said the girl.

'Can the daughter of the dairy read a more fitting book than the
_Dairyman's Daughter_?'

'Where do you come from?' said the girl.

'Out of the water,' said I. 'Don't start, I have been bathing; are you
fond of the water?'

'No,' said the girl, heaving a sigh; 'I am not fond of the water, that
is, of the sea'; and here she sighed again.

'The sea is a wide gulf,' said I, 'and frequently separates hearts.'

The girl sobbed.

'Why are you alone here?' said I.

'I take my turn with the rest,' sa