wd woman as well as they
could, but she couldn't stomach bein' helped.

"An' there's a taste o' revenge in it too, unless I'm sadly mista'en.
She thinks she'll pay t' lad out better wi' goin' to t' workus nor
ought else she could do; an' she likes to believe 'at he'll be
'eart-brokken if she's put in a pauper's grave.

"That's how I size things up. All this trouble needn't have been, but
it is there, an' you an' me has no 'casion to mope over it. Mopin'
won't help neither of 'em, but I daresay we can both 'elp 'em a bit if
we try. I'm goin' to see if I can hear ought o' t' lad, an' if I do I
shall follow 'im up; an' I shall do my best to bring a bit o' sense to
his mother. An' if you'll excuse me, miss--well, you're a woman. Try
what a word o' prayer now an' again 'll do for 'em, i'stead o' frettin'
over 'em; an' 'be strong an' of a good courage.' That's in t' Owd
Book, an' it's good advice."

CHAPTER XII

THE CYNIC EXAGGERATES

Easter is past and spring has burst upon us in all her glory. The
landscape is painted in the freshest and daintiest tints: the beeches
are a sight to make glad the heart of man; the chestnuts with their
cones of cream and pink look in the distance like huge,
newly-replenished candelabra; the slender birches, decked in silvery
white and vivid green, stand gracefully erect, veritable "ladies of the
woods," as Coleridge called them. Here and there a blackthorn bends
beneath its burden of snowy blossom, and calls a challenge to the
hedgerows which have wakened late, and are slow in their dressing.

Occasionally primroses may be seen, though they are not common in these
parts; but on the banks of the lower lane modest violets peep out shyly
from the shadows, and the dull purple flowers of a species of nettle
offer their bashful welcome to spring. The gardens are gorgeous with
daffodils, and the woods with celandine and wild hyacinth; whilst our
humble friends, the buttercups, daisies, and dandelions, have sprung up
in abundance, the merry children of field and wayside charming us all
with their simple beauty.

I spend almost all my leisure time in watching the birds, an occupation
which is in itself a never-failing delight, and I puzzle myself with
questions which no man can answer, but which are imperatively asked all
the same.

Who guides these flocks of tiny travellers, who have journeyed by
trackless routes from distant lands hundreds of miles away, depending
only on th