by mistake
have bloomed later than their neighbours. For Hoodie, as you have seen,
was not easily convinced of anything that she did not wish to believe.

But all her peering was in vain; they reached the end of the little wood
without a single primrose showing its pretty face, and Hoodie was
obliged to content herself with the brightest and freshest plants they
could find, which Lucy good-naturedly dug up for her.

At the edge of the wood, the path led them in front of the cottage to
which three or four months ago Hoodie's memorable visit had been paid.
Lucy walked on quickly, talking of other things in hope of distracting
the little girl's attention till the forbidden ground was safely passed.
Vain hope. Hoodie came to a dead stand in front of the little garden
gate.

"That is the cottage where baby and its mother and the ugly man live,"
she announced to Lucy. "Once, a long time ago, I went there to tea.
Baby's mother asked me to come again some day."

"But not to-day, Miss Hoodie," said poor Lucy, nervously "we'd be too
late if we stopped now."

"No, not to-day," said Hoodie. "I don't want to go to-day. I'm too
unhappy about birdie to care for cakes now. I don't think I'll ever care
for cakes any more. Besides," with a slight hesitation, "she won't have
any ready. She said I was to let her know. _P'raps_ I'll let her know
some day."

She was turning to walk on, immensely to Lucy's relief, when the gleam
of some pale yellow flowers growing close under the cottage walls, up at
the other end of the long narrow strip of garden, caught her glance.

"Lucy," she cried. "I see some p'imroses in the garden. I must run in
and ask baby's mother to give me some. I'm sure she will."

She unfastened the wooden gate and was some steps up the path before
Lucy had time to reply.

"They're not primroses, Miss Hoodie," she said. "Indeed they're not. I
can see from here. They're quite another kind. Oh, do come back, Miss
Hoodie."

"I won't be a minute," said Hoodie, "I'd like some of the flowers any
way," and she began to run on again.

"Miss Hoodie," cried Lucy, driven to despair, "Martin said you mustn't
on no account go into the cottage."

Hoodie's wrath and self-will were instantly aroused.

"Well then, Martin had no business to say so," she replied. "_Mamma_
never said I wasn't to go. She said I should go some day to see the
baby again and to thank baby's mother."

"But not by yourself--without Martin, Miss Hoodie