“Envy them!” The girl opened her eyes wide.  “Envy them!  Oh, Cupid, hear!  Envy them!  Why should I envy them?  Who could envy Mr. and Mrs. Pettigrew?”

“What nonsense you talk!” he exclaimed,—­“Mr. and Mrs. Pettigrew are married folk, not lovers!”

“But they were lovers once,” she said,—­“and only three years ago.  I remember them, walking through the lanes and fields as you say, with arms round each other,—­and Mrs. Pettigrew’s hands were always dreadfully red, and Mr. Pettigrew’s fingers were always dirty,—­and they married very quickly,—­and now they’ve got two dreadful babies that scream all day and all night, and Mrs. Pettigrew’s hair is never tidy and Pettigrew himself—­well, you know what he does!—­”

“Gets drunk every night,” interrupted Robin, crossly,—­“I know!  And I suppose you think I’m another Pettigrew?”

“Oh dear, no!” And she laughed with the heartiest merriment.  “You never could, you never would be a Pettigrew!  But it all comes to the same thing—­love ends in marriage, doesn’t it?”

“It ought to,” said Robin, sententiously.

“And marriage ends—­in Pettigrews!”

“Innocent!”

“Don’t say ‘Innocent’ in that reproachful way!  It makes me feel quite guilty!  Now,—­if you talk of names,—­there’s a name to give a poor girl,—­Innocent!  Nobody ever heard of such a name—­”

“You’re wrong.  There were thirteen Popes named Innocent between the years 402 and 1724,” said Robin, promptly,—­“and one of them, Innocent the Eleventh, is a character in Browning’s ’Ring and the Book.’”

“Dear me!” And her eyes flashed provocatively.  “You astound me with your wisdom, Robin!  But all the same, I don’t believe any girl ever had such a name as Innocent, in spite of thirteen Popes.  And perhaps the Thirteen had other names?”

“They had other baptismal names,” he explained, with a learned air.  “For instance, Pope Innocent the Third was Cardinal Lothario before he became Pope, and he wrote a book called ’De Contemptu Mundi sive de Miseria Humanae Conditionis!’”

She looked at him as he uttered the sonorous sounding Latin, with a comically respectful air of attention, and then laughed like a child,—­laughed till the tears came into her eyes.

“Oh Robin, Robin!” she cried—­“You are simply delicious!  The most enchanting boy!  That crimson tie and that Latin!  No wonder the village girls adore you!  ’De,’—­what is it?  ‘Contemptu Mundi,’ and Misery Human Conditions!  Poor Pope!  He never sat on top of a hay-load in his life I’m sure!  But you see his name was Lothario,—­not Innocent.”

“His baptismal name was Lothario,” said Robin, severely.

She was suddenly silent.

“Well!  I suppose I was baptised?” she queried, after a pause.

“I suppose so.”

“I wonder if I have any other name?  I must ask Dad.”

Robin looked at her curiously;—­then his thoughts were diverted by the sight of a squat stout woman in a brown spotted print gown and white sunbonnet, who just then trotted briskly into the hay-field, calling at the top of her voice: