The lame man’s face brightened.  He had the upward look in his eyes which prolonged suffering often brings.

“Yeas; they’m praaper buties; gude milkers tu.”

“I bet they are.”

“’Ope as yure leg’s better, zurr.”

“Thank you, it’s getting on.”

The lame man touched his own:  “I know what ’tes, meself; ’tes a main worritin’ thing, the knee.  I’ve a-’ad mine bad this ten year.”

Ashurst made the sound of sympathy which comes so readily from those who have an independent income, and the lame man smiled again.

“Mustn’t complain, though—­they mighty near ’ad it off.”

“Ho!”

“Yeas; an’ compared with what ’twas, ’tes almost so gude as nu.”

“They’ve put a bandage of splendid stuff on mine.”

“The maid she picks et.  She’m a gude maid wi’ the flowers.  There’s folks zeem to know the healin’ in things.  My mother was a rare one for that.  ’Ope as yu’ll zune be better, zurr.  Goo ahn, therr!”

Ashurst smiled.  “Wi’ the flowers!” A flower herself!

That evening, after his supper of cold duck, junket, and cider, the girl came in.

“Please, auntie says—­will you try a piece of our Mayday cake?”

“If I may come to the kitchen for it.”

“Oh, yes!  You’ll be missing your friend.”

“Not I. But are you sure no one minds?”

“Who would mind?  We shall be very pleased.”

Ashurst rose too suddenly for his stiff knee, staggered, and subsided.  The girl gave a little gasp, and held out her hands.  Ashurst took them, small, rough, brown; checked his impulse to put them to his lips, and let her pull him up.  She came close beside him, offering her shoulder.  And leaning on her he walked across the room.  That shoulder seemed quite the pleasantest thing he had ever touched.  But, he had presence of mind enough to catch his stick out of the rack, and withdraw his hand before arriving at the kitchen.

That night he slept like a top, and woke with his knee of almost normal size.  He again spent the morning in his chair on the grass patch, scribbling down verses; but in the afternoon he wandered about with the two little boys Nick and Rick.  It was Saturday, so they were early home from school; quick, shy, dark little rascals of seven and six, soon talkative, for Ashurst had a way with children.  By four o’clock they had shown him all their methods of destroying life, except the tickling of trout; and with breeches tucked up, lay on their stomachs over the trout stream, pretending they had this accomplishment also.  They tickled nothing, of course, for their giggling and shouting scared every spotted thing away.  Ashurst, on a rock at the edge of the beech clump, watched them, and listened to the cuckoos, till Nick, the elder and less persevering, came up and stood beside him.

“The gipsy bogle zets on that stone,” he said.