beyond the hedge
several times, drawing back between peeps with smiles and heightened
colour. She did not run down the road, even when she had satisfied
herself of the identity of the traveller; perhaps that would not have
been good form in an English village, for there were houses on the
opposite side of the way. She waited until he opened the gate, the
nursemaid took the bag and looked discreetly into the hedge, then the
mistress slipped her hand through the traveller's arm and walked up the
path as if she had nothing else in the world to wish for. The nurse had
a part in the joy, for she lifted the baby out of the perambulator and
showed proudly how much he had grown.

It was a dear little scene, and I, a passer-by, had shared in it and felt
better for it. I think their content was no less because part of it had
enriched my life, for happiness, like mercy, is twice blessed; it blesses
those who are most intimately associated in it, and it blesses all those
who see it, hear it, feel it, touch it, or breathe the same atmosphere. A
laughing, crowing baby in a house, one cheerful woman singing about her
work, a boy whistling at the plough, a romance just suspected, with its
miracle of two hearts melting into one--the wind's always in the west
when you have any of these wonder-workers in your neighbourhood.

I have talks too, sometimes, with the old parson, who lives in a quaint
house with "_Parva Domus Magna Quies_" cut into the stone over the
doorway. He is not a preaching parson, but a retired one, almost the
nicest kind, I often think.

He has been married thirty years, he tells me; thirty years, spent in the
one little house with the bricks painted red and grey alternately, and
the scarlet holly-hocks growing under the windows. I am sure they have
been sweet, true, kind years, and that his heart must be a quiet,
peaceful place just like his house and garden.

"I was only eleven years old when I fell in love with my wife," he told
me as we sat on the seat under the lime-tree; he puffing cosily at his
pipe, I plaiting grasses for a hatband.

{Puffing cosily at his pipe: p77.jpg}

"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, whi