you lean
wistfully over the gate, there runs a stone wall topped by a green
hedge; and on the right, first furrows of pale fawn, then below, furrows
of deeper brown, and mulberry, and red ploughed earth stretching down to
waving fields of green, and thence to the sea, grey, misty, opalescent,
melting into the pearly white clouds, so that one cannot tell where sea
ends and sky begins.

There is a path between the green hedge and the ploughed field, and it
leads seductively to the farm-steadin'; or we felt that it might thus
lead, if we dared unlatch the wicket gate. Seeing no sign 'Private Way,'
'Trespassers Not Allowed,' or other printed defiance to the stranger,
we were considering the opening of the gate, when we observed two female
figures coming toward us along the path, and paused until they should
come through. It was the Disagreeable Woman (although we knew it not)
and an elderly friend. We accosted the friend, feeling instinctively
that she was framed of softer stuff, and asked her if the path were a
private one. It was a question that had never met her ear before, and
she was too dull or too discreet to deal with it on the instant. To our
amazement, she did not even manage to falter, 'I couldna say.'

"Is the path private?" I repeated.

"It is certainly the idea to keep it a little private," said the
Disagreeable Woman, coming into the conversation without being
addressed. "Where do you wish to go?"

"Nowhere in particular. The walk looks so inviting we should like to see
the end."

"It goes only to the Farm, and you can reach that by the highroad; it is
only a half-mile further. Do you wish to call at the Farm?"

"No, oh no; the path is so very pretty that--"

"Yes, I see; well, I should call it rather private." And with this she
departed, leaving us to stand on the outskirts of paradise, while she
went into her house and stared at us from the window as she played with
the lovely undeserved baby. But that was not the end of the matter.

We found ourselves there next day, Francesca and I--Salemina was too
proud--drawn by an insatiable longing to view the beloved and forbidden
scene. We did not dare to glance at the Disagreeable Woman's windows,
lest our courage should ooze away, so we opened the gate and stole
through into the rather private path.

It was a most lovely path; even if it had not been in a sense
prohibited, it would still have been lovely, simply on its own merits.
There were little gap