It was her prayer to heaven that she might save a doctor’s bill.  She died, without lingering illness, in her own beloved month of June; the roses of her tending at the open window, and a soft breath floating up to her from the garden.  On the foregoing May-day, she had sat on the green that fronted the iron gateway, when Dahlia and Rhoda dressed the children of the village in garlands, and crowned the fairest little one queen of May:  a sight that revived in Mrs. Fleming’s recollection the time of her own eldest and fairest taking homage, shy in her white smock and light thick curls.  The gathering was large, and the day was of the old nature of May, before tyrannous Eastwinds had captured it and spoiled its consecration.  The mill-stream of the neighbouring mill ran blue among the broad green pastures; the air smelt of cream-bowls and wheaten loaves; the firs on the beacon-ridge, far southward, over Fenhurst and Helm villages, were transported nearer to see the show, and stood like friends anxious to renew acquaintance.  Dahlia and Rhoda taught the children to perceive how they resembled bent old beggar-men.  The two stone-pines in the miller’s grounds were likened by them to Adam and Eve turning away from the blaze of Paradise; and the saying of one receptive child, that they had nothing but hair on, made the illustration undying both to Dahlia and Rhoda.

The magic of the weather brought numerous butterflies afield, and one fiddler, to whose tuning the little women danced; others closer upon womanhood would have danced likewise, if the sisters had taken partners; but Dahlia was restrained by the sudden consciousness that she was under the immediate observation of two manifestly London gentlemen, and she declined to be led forth by Robert Armstrong.  The intruders were youths of good countenance, known to be the son and the nephew of Squire Blancove of Wrexby Hall.  They remained for some time watching the scene, and destroyed Dahlia’s single-mindedness.  Like many days of gaiety, the Gods consenting, this one had its human shadow.  There appeared on the borders of the festivity a young woman, the daughter of a Wrexby cottager, who had left her home and but lately returned to it, with a spotted name.  No one addressed her, and she stood humbly apart.  Dahlia, seeing that every one moved away from her, whispering with satisfied noddings, wished to draw her in among the groups.  She mentioned the name of Mary Burt to her father, supposing that so kind a man would not fail to sanction her going up to the neglected young woman.  To her surprise, her father became violently enraged, and uttered a stern prohibition, speaking a word that stained her cheeks.  Rhoda was by her side, and she wilfully, without asking leave, went straight over to Mary, and stood with her under the shadow of the Adam and Eve, until the farmer sent a messenger to say that he was about to enter the house.  Her punishment for the act of sinfulness was a week of severe silence; and the farmer would have kept