“Yan-a-dick—­tyan-a-dick—­tethe
ra-a-dick—­methera-a-dick—­bumfit.”

At “bumfit” (fifteen) they both rocked with merriment, the old man carried away by the infection of hers.

“Go on,” said Lydia—­the tears of laughter in her eyes—­“up to twenty, and then hear me say them.”

“Yan-a-bumfit—­tyan-a-bumfit—­t
ethera-a-bumfit—­methera-a-bumfit—­giggot” (twenty).

“Giggot” set them both off again—­and then Lydia—­stumbling, laughing, and often corrected, said her lesson.

By the time she was fairly perfect, and the old man had straightened himself again under his load—­a veritable “good shepherd,” glorified by the evening light—­they parted with a friendly nod, glad to have met and sure to meet again.

“I’ll come and see Bessie soon,” she said gently, as she moved on.

“Aye.  Yo’ll be varra welcome.”

She stepped forward briskly, gained the high road, and presently saw in front of her a small white house, recently built, and already embowered in a blossoming garden.  Lilacs sent their fragrance to greet her; rhododendrons glowed through the twilight, and a wild-cherry laden with bloom reared its white miracle against the walls of the house.

Lydia stood at the gate devouring the tree with her eyes.  The blossom had already begun to drop.  “Two days more”—­she said to herself, sighing—­“and it’ll be gone—­till next year.  And it’s been out such a little, little while!  I seem hardly to have looked at it.  It’s horrible how short-lived all the beautiful things are.”

“Lydia!” A voice called from an open window.

“Yes, mother.”

“You’re dreadfully late, Lydia!  Susan and I have finished supper long ago.”

Lydia walked into the house, and put her head into the drawing-room.

“Sorry, mother!  It was so lovely, I couldn’t come in.  And I met a dear old shepherd I know.  Don’t bother about me.  I’ll get some milk and cake.”

She closed the door again, before her mother could protest.

“Girls will never think of their meals!” said Mrs. Penfold to herself in irritation.  “And then all of a sudden they get nerves—­or consumption—­or something.”

As she spoke, she withdrew from the window, and curled herself up on a sofa, where a knitted coverlet lay, ready to draw over her feet.  Mrs. Penfold was a slight, pretty woman of fifty with invalidish Sybaritic ways, and a character which was an odd mixture of humility and conceit—­diffidence and audacity.  She was quite aware that she was not as clever as her daughters.  She could not write poetry like Susan, or paint like Lydia.  But then, in her own opinion, she had so many merits they were without; merits which more than maintained her self-respect, and enabled her to hold her ground with them.  For instance:  by the time she was four and twenty, Lydia’s age, she had received at least a dozen proposals.  Lydia’s scalps, so far as her