the farmyard was the farmhouse itself,—­a long, low, timbered building with a broad tiled roof supported by huge oaken rafters and crowned with many gables,—­a building proudly declaring itself as of the days of Elizabeth’s yeomen, and bearing about it the honourable marks of age and long stress of weather.  No such farmhouses are built nowadays, for life has become with us less than a temporary thing,—­a coin to be spent rapidly as soon as gained, too valueless for any interest upon it to be sought or desired.  In olden times it was apparently not considered such cheap currency.  Men built their homes to last not only for their own lifetime, but for the lifetime of their children and their children’s children; and the idea that their children’s children might possibly fail to appreciate the strenuousness and worth of their labours never entered their simple brains.

The farmyard was terminated at its other end by a broad stone archway, which showed as in a semi-circular frame the glint of scarlet geraniums in the distance, and in the shadow cast by this embrasure was the small unobtrusive figure of a girl.  She stood idly watching the hens pecking at their food and driving away their offspring from every chance of sharing bit or sup with them,—­and as she noted the greedy triumph of the strong over the weak, the great over the small, her brows drew together in a slight frown of something like scorn.  Yet hers was not a face that naturally expressed any of the unkind or harsh emotions.  It was soft and delicately featured, and its rose-white tints were illumined by grave, deeply-set grey eyes that were full of wistful and questioning pathos.  In stature she was below the middle height and slight of build, so that she seemed a mere child at first sight, with nothing particularly attractive about her except, perhaps, her hands.  These were daintily shaped and characteristic of inbred refinement, and as they hung listlessly at her sides looked scarcely less white than the white cotton frock she wore.  She turned presently with a movement of impatience away from the sight of the fussy and quarrelsome fowls, and looking up at the quaint gables of the farmhouse uttered a low, caressing call.  A white dove flew down to her instantly, followed by another and yet another.  She smiled and extended her arms, and a whole flock of the birds came fluttering about her in a whirl of wings, perching on her shoulders and alighting at her feet.  One that seemed to enjoy a position of special favouritism, flew straight against her breast,—­she caught it and held it there.  It remained with her quite contentedly, while she stroked its velvety neck.

“Poor Cupid!” she murmured.  “You love me, don’t you?  Oh yes, ever so much!  Only you can’t tell me so!  I’m glad!  You wouldn’t be half so sweet if you could!”