ath (as you have gathered) was for pedestrians only. Mrs Bosenna's
farm-carts and milk-carts--her dairy trade was considerable--had to
fetch a circuit by the road-bridge, half a mile inland.

The air in the valley was heavy, even on this April day. Captain Cai
reached the footpath-gate in a bath of perspiration, despite his alpaca
coat and notwithstanding that the last half mile of his way had lain
under the light shade of budding trees. He gazed up at the ascent, and
bethought him that the musical box was an intolerable burden for such a
climb. It would involve him in explanations, too, being so unusual an
accessory to a morning call. He searched about, therefore, for a
hiding-place in which to bestow it, and found one at length in a clump
of alder intermixed with brambles, that overhung the stream a few paces
beyond the gate, almost within the shadow of the footbridge.

Having made sure that the bed on which it rested was firm and moderately
dry, he covered the box with a strewing of last year's leaves, cunningly
trailed a bramble or two over it, and pursued his way more lightsomely,
albeit still under some oppression: for the house stood formidably high,
and he feared all converse with women. For lack of practice he had no
presence of mind in their company, Moreover, his recent fiasco in
speech-making had dashed his spirits.

He reached the last turn of the path. It brought him in sight of a
garden-gate some ten yards ahead, on his left hand. The gate was white,
and some one inside was even at this moment engaged in repainting it;
for as he halted to draw breath he caught sight of a paint-brush--or
rather the point of one--briskly waggling between the rails.

The gate opened and Mrs Bosenna peeped out. "Ah, I _thought_ I heard
footsteps!" said she. She wore a widow's cap--a very small and natty
one; and a large white apron covered the front of her widow's gown from
bosom to ankles.

"I--I'm sorry to call so late, ma'am."

"Late? Why, it can't be past noon, scarcely. . . . We don't have dinner
till one o'clock. You'll excuse my not shaking hands, but I never
_could_ paint without messing my fingers."

"But I hadn't an idea, ma'am--"

"Eh?"

"Nothing was farther from my thoughts than--than--"

"Staying to dinner? Oh, but it's understood! There's roast
sucking-pig," said Mrs Bosenna tranquilly, as if this disposed of all
argument. She added, "I didn't recognise you for the moment.
You're weari