a market-basket by her side. She had chosen a site for
the picnic near a bubbling brook, and had filled her glass with clear
sparkling water therefrom, before seating herself to enjoy her cold
chicken and bread and butter, and a slice of game-pie.

Peter was very far from feeling any inclination towards displaying the
hilarity which an outdoor meal is supposed to provoke. He was obliged
to collect sticks, and put a senseless round-bottomed kettle on a
damp reluctant fire; to himself he used much stronger adjectives in
describing both; he relieved his feelings slightly by saying that he
never ate lunch, and by gloomily eying the game-pie instead of aiding
Sarah to demolish it.

"It wouldn't be a picnic without a kettle and a fire; and we _must_
have hot water to wash up with. I brought a dish-cloth on purpose,"
said Sarah. "I can't think why you don't enjoy yourself. You used to
be fond of eating and drinking--_anywhere_--and most of all on the
moor--in the good old days that are gone."

"I am not a philosopher like you," said Peter, angrily.

"I am anything but that," said Sarah, with provoking cheerfulness. "A
philosopher is a thoughtful middle-aged person who puts off enjoying
life until it's too late to begin."

"I hate middle-aged people," said Peter.

"I am not very fond of them myself, as a rule," said Sarah,
indulgently. "They aren't nice and amusing to talk to, like you and
me; or rather" (with a glance at her companion's face), "like _me_;
and they aren't picturesque and fond of spoiling us, as _really_ old
people are. They are just busy trying to get all they can out of
the world, that's all. But there are exceptions; or, of course, it
wouldn't be a rule. Your mother is an exception. No one, young or old,
was ever more picturesque or--or more altogether delicious. It was I
who taught her that new way of doing her hair. By-the-by, how do you
like it?"

"I don't like it at all," growled Peter.

"Perhaps you preferred the old way," said Sarah, turning up her short
nose rather scornfully. "Parted, indeed, and brushed down flat over
her ears, exactly like that horrid old Mrs. Ash!"

"Mrs. Ash has lived with us for thirty years," said Peter, in a tone
implying that he desired no liberties to be taken with the names of
his faithful retainers.

"That doesn't make her any better looking, however," retorted Sarah.
"In fact, she might have had more chance of learning how to do her
hair properly anywhere else