“Why don’t you take them away from her and give them back to the first hen, who did most of the work?” I asked, with some spirit.

“Like as not she wouldn’t tyke them now,” said Phoebe, as she lifted the hen off the broken egg-shells and moved her gently into a clean box, on a bed of fresh hay.  We put food and drink within reach of the family, and very proud and handsome that highway robber of a hen looked, as she stretched her wings over the seventeen easily-earned ducklings.

Going back to the old nesting-box, I found one egg forgotten among the shells.  It was still warm, and I took it up to run across the field with it to Phoebe.  It was heavy, and the carrying of it was a queer sensation, inasmuch as it squirmed and “yipped” vociferously in transit, threatening so unmistakably to hatch in my hand that I was decidedly nervous.  The intrepid little youngster burst his shell as he touched Phoebe’s apron, and has become the strongest and handsomest of the brood.

All this tending of downy young things, this feeding and putting to bed, this petting and nursing and rearing, is such pretty, comforting woman’s work.  I am sure Phoebe will make a better wife to the carrier for having been a poultry-maid, and though good enough for most practical purposes when I came here, I am an infinitely better woman now.  I am afraid I was not particularly nice the last few days at the Hydro.  Such a lot of dull, prosy, inquisitive, bothering old tabbies!  Aunt Margaret furnishing imaginary symptoms enough to keep a fond husband and two trained nurses distracted; a man I had never encouraged in my life coming to stay in the neighbourhood and turning up daily for rejection; another man taking rooms at the very hotel with the avowed purpose of making my life a burden; and on the heels of both, a widow of thirty-five in full chase!  Small wonder I thought it more dignified to retire than to compete, and so I did.

I need not, however, have cut the threads that bound me to Oxenbridge with such particularly sharp scissors, nor given them such a vicious snap; for, so far as I can observe, the little world of which I imagined myself the sun continues to revolve, and, probably, about some other centre.  I can well imagine who has taken up that delightful but somewhat exposed and responsible position—­it would be just like her!

I am perfectly happy where I am; it is not that; but it seems so strange that they can be perfectly happy without me, after all that they—­after all that was said on the subject not many days ago.  Nothing turns out as one expects.  There have been no hot pursuits, no rewards offered, no bills posted, no printed placards issued describing the beauty and charms of a young person who supposed herself the cynosure of every eye.  Heigh-ho!  What does it matter, after all?  One can always be a Goose Girl!

* * *