“It was just before Sunday-school.  Her mother had dressed her all in white muslin like a fairy, but she had stepped on the edge of a puddle, and some of the muddy water had bespattered her frock.  A circle of children had surrounded her, and some of the motherly little girls were on their knees rubbing at the spots anxiously, while one of them wiped away the tears that were running down her pretty cheeks.  I looked!  It was fatal!  I did not look again, but I was smitten to the very heart!  I did not speak to her for six years, but when I did, it was all right with both of us, thank God! and I’ve been in love with her ever since, when she behaves herself!”

That is the way they speak of love in Barbury Green, and oh! how much sweeter and more wholesome it is than the language of the town!  Who would not be a Goose Girl, “to win the secret of the weed’s plain heart”?  It seems to me that in society we are always gazing at magic-lantern shows, but here we rest our tired eyes with looking at the stars.

CHAPTER XI

July 16th.

Phoebe and I have been to a Hen Conference at Buffington.  It was for the purpose of raising the standard of the British Hen, and our local Countess, who is much interested in poultry, was in the chair.

It was a very learned body, but Phoebe had coached me so well that at the noon recess I could talk confidently with the members, discussing the various advantages of True and Crossed Minorcas, Feverels, Andalusians, Cochin Chinas, Shanghais, and the White Leghorn. (Phoebe, when she pronounces this word, leaves out the “h” and bears down heavily on the last syllable, so that it rhymes with begone!)

As I was sitting under the trees waiting for Phoebe to finish some shopping in the village, a travelling poultry-dealer came along and offered to sell me a silver Wyandotte pullet and cockerel.  This was a new breed to me and I asked the price, which proved to be more than I should pay for a hat in Bond Street.  I hesitated, thinking meantime what a delightful parting gift they would be for Phoebe; I mean if we ever should part, which seems more and more unlikely, as I shall never leave Thornycroft until somebody comes properly to fetch me; indeed, unless the “fetching” is done somewhat speedily I may decline to go under any circumstances.  My indecision as to the purchase was finally banished when the poultryman asserted that the fowls had clear open centres all over, black lacing entirely round the white centres, were free from white edging, and each had a cherry-red eye.  This catalogue of charms inflamed my imagination, though it gave me no mental picture of a silver Wyandotte fowl, and I paid the money while the dealer crammed the chicks, squawking into my five-o’clock tea-basket.