wore a
yellow velvet cap and tan gauntlets, and carried a real hunting-crop.
Her cheeks were pale except for two pretty pink patches in the middle,
and she talked with little gasps at the end of her sentences, as though
she had been running.

'You don't milk so badly, child,' she said, and when she smiled her
teeth showed small and even and pearly.

'Can you milk?' Una asked, and then flushed, for she heard Puck's
chuckle.

He stepped out of the fern and sat down, holding _Kitty Shorthorn's_
tail. 'There isn't much,' he said, 'that Miss Philadelphia doesn't know
about milk--or, for that matter, butter and eggs. She's a great
housewife.'

'Oh,' said Una. 'I'm sorry I can't shake hands. Mine are all milky; but
Mrs. Vincey is going to teach me butter-making this summer.'

'Ah! _I_'m going to London this summer,' the girl said, 'to my aunt in
Bloomsbury.' She coughed as she began to hum, '"Oh, what a town! What a
wonderful metropolis!"'

'You've got a cold,' said Una.

'No. Only my stupid cough. But it's vastly better than it was last
winter. It will disappear in London air. Every one says so. D'you like
doctors, child?'

'I don't know any,' Una replied. 'But I'm sure I shouldn't.'

'Think yourself lucky, child. I beg your pardon,' the girl laughed, for
Una frowned.

'I'm not a child, and my name's Una,' she said.

'Mine's Philadelphia. But everybody except Rene calls me Phil. I'm
Squire Bucksteed's daughter--over at Marklake yonder.' She jerked her
little round chin towards the south behind Dallington. 'Sure-ly you know
Marklake?'

'We went a picnic to Marklake Green once,' said Una. 'It's awfully
pretty. I like all those funny little roads that don't lead anywhere.'

'They lead over our land,' said Philadelphia stiffly, 'and the coach
road is only four miles away. One can go anywhere from the Green. I went
to the Assize Ball at Lewes last year.' She spun round and took a few
dancing steps, but stopped with her hand to her side.

'It gives me a stitch,' she explained. 'No odds. 'Twill go away in
London air. That's the latest French step, child. Rene taught it me.
D'you hate the French, chi--Una?'

'Well, I hate French, of course, but I don't mind Mam'selle. She's
rather decent. Is Rene your French governess?'

Philadelphia laughed till she caught her breath again.

'Oh no! Rene's a French prisoner--on parole. That means he's promised
not to escape till he has been properly exchanged for an Englishma