June 12th.—­Temperature in shade of well, 62 deg.; of water, 51 deg..

August 25th.—­In shade of well (at noon), 73 deg.; of water, 52 deg..

November 20th.—­In shade of well, 43 deg.; of water, 52 deg..

January 1st.—­External air, 56 deg.; enclosure, 53 deg.; water, 52 deg..

March 11th.—­A bleak, sunless day.  Temperature in shade of well, at noon, 54 deg.; water, 51 deg..  The Chrysosplenium Oppositiflorium in rich golden bloom within the enclosure.

But the spring has other properties besides its steady temperature.  I was early abroad in my garden last Thursday week, and in the act of tossing a snail over my box hedge, when I heard some girls’ voices giggling, and caught a glimpse of half-a-dozen sun-bonnets gathered about the well.  Straightening myself up, I saw a group of maids from the village, and, in the middle, one who bent over the water.  Presently she scrambled to her feet, glanced over her shoulder and gave a shrill scream.

I, too, looked up the lane and saw, a stone’s throw off, the schoolmaster advancing with long and nervous strides.  He was furiously angry.

“Thomasine Slade,” said he, “you are as shameless as you are ignorant!”

The girl tossed her chin and was silent, with a warm blush on her cheek and a lurking imp of laughter in her eye.  The schoolmaster frowned still more darkly.

“Shameless as well as ignorant!” he repeated, bringing the ferule of his umbrella smartly down upon the macadam; “and you, Jane Hewitt, and you, Lizzie Polkinghorne!”

“Why, what’s the matter?” I asked, stepping out into the road.

At sight of me the girls broke into a peal of laughter, gathered up their skirts and fled, still laughing, down the road.

“What’s the matter?” I asked again.

“The matter?” echoed the schoolmaster, staring blankly after the retreating skirts; then more angrily—­“The matter? come and look here!” He took hold of my shirt-sleeve and led me to the well.  Stooping, I saw half-a-dozen pins gleaming in its brown depths.

“A love-charm.”

The schoolmaster nodded.

“Thomasine Slade has been wishing for a husband.  I see no sin in that.  When she looked up and saw you coming down the lane—­”

I paused.  The schoolmaster said nothing.  He was leaning over the well, gloomily examining the pins.

“—­your aspect was enough to scare anyone,” I wound up lamely.

“I wish,” the schoolmaster hastily began, “I wish to Heaven I had the gift of humour!  I lose my temper and grow positive.  I’d kill these stupid superstitions with ridicule, if I had the gift.  It’s a great gift.  My God, I do hate to be laughed at!”

“Even by a fool?” I asked, somewhat astonished at his heat.

“Certainly.  There’s no comfort in comparing the laugh of fools with the crackling of thorns under a pot, if you happen to be inside the pot and in process of cooking.”