Thomas Dawson stood by, his face all alight with smiles and interest.  “What a clever little maid ’tis,” he thought, “and what a happy little soul to be so ready to talk like that right away.”

“Now, my dear, are ’ee ready?  We must hurry on, or granny’ll think you ain’t come, and she will be wondering what’s become of me.  Shall I carry you again?”

“No, thank you, I’d like to walk, but I’d like you to hold my hand.  Mother always does; she’s afraid I’ll get lost with so many people about.”

“Well, you won’t be troubled with too many people hereabouts,” said her grandfather, laughing, but he was only too glad to clasp the little hand thrust into his, and they walked on very happily together talking quite as though they were old friends.

“We are nearly home now, ’tisn’t so very much further.  Are ’ee tired, dear?”

“No—­o, not so very,” she answered, but in rather a weary voice.  “Are you too tired to carry me?”

Her grandfather laughed, but before he could reply, or pick her up, she drew back a little.  “Is my face clean?” she asked anxiously.  “I must have a clean face when I see granny.  Mother told me granny doesn’t like little girls with dirty faces.  Do you, granp?”

“I like some little girls, no matter what their faces is like,” he said warmly, but recollecting himself, he added quickly, “Of course I like ’em best with nice clean faces and hands and tidy hair.  Every one does.”

“Mother said you didn’t mind so much,” she added brightly.

“Did she! did she now!  Just fancy her thinking that!” The old man’s face quite lighted up at the thought of Lizzie’s remembering.  “Yes, I used to dip the corner of my handkerchief in the brook sometimes and wash her little face for her, so as she might go home to her mother looking clean.  Look, here is a little brook, shall I wash yours over a bit, like I used to mother’s?”

“Oh, please, please,” cried Jessie delightedly.

So by the wayside they stopped and made quite a little toilette, her face and hands were washed, and her hair put back neatly under her shabby hat, and then they went on again.

Patience Dawson, looking anxiously out of the window, saw them at last arrive at the gate, and her heart almost stood still with excitement and nervousness.  “Why, it might be five and twenty years ago, and Thomas be bringing in Lizzie herself!” she gasped.  Her face flushed, tears suddenly brimmed over and down her cheeks.  She longed to run down the garden and take the little child in her arms and hold her to her heart, but a sudden shyness came over her and held her fast.  She could only stand there and watch them and wait.

She saw her husband looking eagerly from window to door, expecting to see her; she saw the little child face turned excitedly from side to side, exclaiming at the sight of the flowers, and sniffing in the scent.

“Oh, granp, smell the ’warriors’!” she heard her cry in a perfectly friendly voice.  “You sniff hard and you’ll smell them.  Oh, my!”