s in the hedge and the wall, through which we
peered into a daisy-starred pasture, where a white bossy and a herd of
flaxen-haired cows fed on the sweet green grass. The mellow ploughed
earth on the right hand stretched down to the shore-line, and a
plough-boy walked up and down the long, straight furrows whistling 'My
Nannie's awa'.' Pettybaw is so far removed from the music-halls that
their cheap songs and strident echoes never reach its sylvan shades, and
the herd-laddies and plough-boys still sweeten their labours with the
old classic melodies.

We walked on and on, determined to come every day; and we settled
that if we were accosted by any one, or if our innocent business were
demanded, Francesca should ask, 'Does Mrs. Macstronachlacher live here,
and has she any new-laid eggs?'

Soon the gates of the Farm appeared in sight. There was a cluster of
buildings, with doves huddling and cooing on the red-tiled roofs,--dairy
houses, workmen's cottages, comely rows of haystacks (towering yellow
things with peaked tops); a little pond with ducks and geese chattering
together as they paddled about, and for additional music the trickling
of two tiny burns making 'a singan din,' as they wimpled through the
bushes. A speckle-breasted thrush perched on a corner of the grey wall
and poured his heart out. Overhead there was a chorus of rooks in the
tall trees, but there was no sound of human voice save that of the
plough-laddie whistling 'My Nannie's awa'.'

We turned our backs on this darling solitude, and retraced our steps
lingeringly. As we neared the wicket gate again we stood upon a bit of
jutting rock and peered over the wall, sniffing the hawthorn buds with
ecstasy. The white bossy drew closer, treading softly on its daisy
carpet; the wondering cows looked up at us as they peacefully chewed
their cuds; a man in corduroy breeches came from a corner of the
pasture, and with a sharp, narrow hoe rooted out a thistle or two that
had found their way into this sweet feeding-ground. Suddenly we heard
the swish of a dress behind, and turned, conscience-stricken, though we
had in nothing sinned.

"Does Mrs. Macstronachlacher live here?" stammered Francesca like a
parrot.

It was an idiotic time and place for the question. We had certainly
arranged that she should ask it, but something must be left to the
judgment in such cases. Francesca was hanging over a stone wall
regarding a herd of cows in a pasture, and there was no po