o
deal adequately with such a situation in my "book."

"You are not very romantic, love," she said to me one evening, when she
had been making unusually large demands upon her imagination, to my
considerable amusement, "and I don't think you will ever be equal to
the greatest writers unless you cultivate that side of your nature.
You know, love, you are rather practical and common-sense and all that
sort of thing, and the men might not know how very nice you are." She
came across and kissed me, hoping I did not mind her candour.

"You see, love, I was always rather romantic myself, and I think I
could help you a bit; though, of course, I am not clever like you. But
I could just tell you what I think ought to be put in, and you could
find suitable language for it.... Now you're laughing at me!"

I believe she thought the hero had arrived when the Cynic turned up on
Easter Monday.

It was a truly beautiful day, typically April, except that the showers
were wanting, and the much-abused clerk who controls the Weather
Department must have been unusually complaisant when he crowded so many
pleasing features into his holiday programme. Until the long shadows
began to creep across the fields it was warm enough to sit out in the
sunshine, whilst there was just sufficient "bite" in the air to make
exercise agreeable.

Every cottage garden had on its gala clothing and smiled a friendly
welcome to the passer-by, and a sky that was almost really blue bent
over a landscape of meadow, moor, and wood that was a perfect fantasy
in every delicate shade of green. And the beasts of the field and the
fowls of the air lifted up their voices in their several degrees of
melody.

It had been a glorious Easter Day, and perhaps on that account I had
risen early on the Monday and gone out bareheaded to catch the Spirit
of the Morning. Farmer Goodenough passed as I stood at the gate, and
threw one of his hearty greetings over his shoulder without pausing in
his walk.

"Look out for customers to-day, Miss 'Olden! There'll be scores in t'
village this afternoon from Broadbeck way."

"But suppose I don't want them, Mr. Goodenough," I replied; "it's
holiday to-day."

"That 'ud be a sin," he shouted; "'make hay while t' sun shines,' as t'
Owd Book says, holiday or no holiday."

There was sense in this. Customers had so far been scarce enough, for
I had been favoured with the patronage of only three paying sitters,
although I had be