at to smile was not
polite. "He was a funny gentleman; he made us laugh. I think he is very
clever."

"What did he say to make you laugh?"

"He said I was a daughter of the bards. What are they?"

"Welsh poets, who lived hundreds of years ago."

"Why am I their daughter, please?"

"He meant that you were the sort of girl they sang about."

She wrinkled her brows. "I think he likes to joke. Am I?"

"Would you believe me, if I told you?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well, I think he was right."

She smiled.

And Ashurst thought: 'You are a pretty thing!'

"He said, too, that Joe was a Saxon type. What would that be?"

"Which is Joe? With the blue eyes and red face?"

"Yes. My uncle's nephew."

"Not your cousin, then?"

"No."

"Well, he meant that Joe was like the men who came over to England about
fourteen hundred years ago, and conquered it."

"Oh! I know about them; but is he?"

"Garton's crazy about that sort of thing; but I must say Joe does look a
bit Early Saxon."

"Yes."

That "Yes" tickled Ashurst. It was so crisp and graceful, so conclusive,
and politely acquiescent in what was evidently. Greek to her.

"He said that all the other boys were regular gipsies. He should not
have said that. My aunt laughed, but she didn't like it, of course, and
my cousins were angry. Uncle was a farmer--farmers are not gipsies. It
is wrong to hurt people."

Ashurst wanted to take her hand and give it a squeeze, but he only
answered:

"Quite right, Megan. By the way, I heard you putting the little ones to
bed last night."

She flushed a little. "Please to drink your tea--it is getting cold.
Shall I get you some fresh?"

"Do you ever have time to do anything for yourself?"

"Oh! Yes."

"I've been watching, but I haven't seen it yet."

She wrinkled her brows in a puzzled frown, and her colour deepened.

When she was gone, Ashurst thought: 'Did she think I was chaffing her? I
wouldn't for the world!' He was at that age when to some men "Beauty's
a flower," as the poet says, and inspires in them the thoughts of
chivalry. Never very conscious of his surroundings, it was some time
before he was aware that the youth whom Garton had called "a Saxon type"
was standing outside the stable door; and a fine bit of colour he
made in his soiled brown velvet-cords, muddy gaiters, and blue shirt;
red-armed, red-faced, the sun turning his hair from tow to flax;
immovably stolid, persistent, unsmiling he stood. Then, seeing A