dant life, some feathering, and some
gobleted, and some with fringe of red to it. Overhead there was no
ceiling but the sky itself, flaked with little clouds of April whitely
wandering over it. The floor was made of soft low grass, mixed with moss
and primroses; and in a niche of shelter moved the delicate wood-sorrel.
Here and there, around the sides, were "chairs of living stone," as some
Latin writer says, whose name has quite escaped me; and in the midst a
tiny spring arose, with crystal beads in it, and a soft voice as of
a laughing dream, and dimples like a sleeping babe. Then, after going
round a little, with surprise of daylight, the water overwelled the
edge, and softly went through lines of light to shadows and an untold
bourne.

While I was gazing at all these things with wonder and some sadness,
Lorna turned upon me lightly (as her manner was) and said,--

"Where are the new-laid eggs, Master Ridd? Or hath blue hen ceased
laying?"

I did not altogether like the way in which she said it with a sort of
dialect, as if my speech could be laughed at.

"Here be some," I answered, speaking as if in spite of her. "I would
have brought thee twice as many, but that I feared to crush them in the
narrow ways, Mistress Lorna."

[Illustration: 157.jpg Here be some Mistress Lorna]

And so I laid her out two dozen upon the moss of the rock-ledge,
unwinding the wisp of hay from each as it came safe out of my pocket.
Lorna looked with growing wonder, as I added one to one; and when I
had placed them side by side, and bidden her now to tell them, to my
amazement what did she do but burst into a flood of tears.

"What have I done?" I asked, with shame, scarce daring even to look
at her, because her grief was not like Annie's--a thing that could be
coaxed away, and left a joy in going--"oh, what have I done to vex you
so?"

"It is nothing done by you, Master Ridd," she answered, very proudly, as
if nought I did could matter; "it is only something that comes upon me
with the scent of the pure true clover-hay. Moreover, you have been too
kind; and I am not used to kindness."

Some sort of awkwardness was on me, at her words and weeping, as if I
would like to say something, but feared to make things worse perhaps
than they were already. Therefore I abstained from speech, as I would
in my own pain. And as it happened, this was the way to make her tell me
more about it. Not that I was curious, beyond what pity urged me and