I'll be bound."

Is she some little danseuse with the whim to be romantically rustic for
a week? or is she somebody else's pretty wife run away with somebody
else's man? or is she some naughty little grisette with an extravagant
lover? or is she just the usual lady landscape artist, with a more than
usual taste in lingerie?

At all events, it was fairly obvious that, for one reason or another,
the wearer of the petticoat and stockings which have now occupied us
for perhaps a sufficient number of pages, was a visitor at the cottage.

The next thing was to get a look at her. So, remembering how fond I was
of milk from the cow, I pushed open the gate and advanced to the
cottage door.

CHAPTER XV

STILL OCCUPIED WITH THE PETTICOAT

The door was opened by a comely young woman, with ruddy cheeks and a
bright kind eye that promised conversation. But "H'm," said I to
myself, as she went to fetch my milk, "evidently not yours, my dear."

"A nice drying day for your washing," I said, as I slowly sipped my
milk, with a half-inclination of my head towards the clothes-line.

"Very fine, indeed, sir," she returned, with something of a blush, and
a shy deprecating look that seemed to beg me not to notice the
peculiarly quaint antics which the wind, evidently a humourist, chose
at that moment to execute with the female garments upon the line.
However, I was for once cased in triple brass and inexorable.

"And who," I ventured, smiling, "may be the owner of those fine things?"

"Not those," I continued, pointing to an odd garment which the wind was
wantonly puffing out in the quaintest way, "but that pretty petticoat
and those silk stockings?"

The poor girl had gone scarlet, scarlet as the petticoat which I was
sure WAS hers, with probably a fellow at the moment keeping warm her
buxom figure.

"You are very bold, sir," she stammered through her blushes, but I
could see that she was not ill-pleased that the finery should attract
attention.

"But won't you tell me?" I urged; "I have a reason for asking."

And here I had better warn the reader that, as the result of a whim
that presently seized me, I must be content to appear mad in his eyes
for the next few pages, till I get an opportunity of explanation.

"Well, what if they should be mine?" at length I persuaded her into
saying.

I made the obvious gallant reply, but, "All the same," I added, "you
know they are not yours. They belong to some lady visitor, who