and there's the bird--the same
bird--now he flies to another tree, and stays to sing. Come!'

When they rose up from the ground, and took the shady track which led
them through the wood, she bounded on before, printing her tiny
footsteps in the moss, which rose elastic from so light a pressure and
gave it back as mirrors throw off breath; and thus she lured the old
man on, with many a backward look and merry beck, now pointing
stealthily to some lone bird as it perched and twittered on a branch
that strayed across their path, now stopping to listen to the songs
that broke the happy silence, or watch the sun as it trembled through
the leaves, and stealing in among the ivied trunks of stout old trees,
opened long paths of light. As they passed onward, parting the boughs
that clustered in their way, the serenity which the child had first
assumed, stole into her breast in earnest; the old man cast no longer
fearful looks behind, but felt at ease and cheerful, for the further
they passed into the deep green shade, the more they felt that the
tranquil mind of God was there, and shed its peace on them.

At length the path becoming clearer and less intricate, brought them to
the end of the wood, and into a public road. Taking their way along it
for a short distance, they came to a lane, so shaded by the trees on
either hand that they met together over-head, and arched the narrow
way. A broken finger-post announced that this led to a village three
miles off; and thither they resolved to bend their steps.

The miles appeared so long that they sometimes thought they must have
missed their road. But at last, to their great joy, it led downwards
in a steep descent, with overhanging banks over which the footpaths
led; and the clustered houses of the village peeped from the woody
hollow below.

It was a very small place. The men and boys were playing at cricket on
the green; and as the other folks were looking on, they wandered up and
down, uncertain where to seek a humble lodging. There was but one old
man in the little garden before his cottage, and him they were timid of
approaching, for he was the schoolmaster, and had 'School' written up
over his window in black letters on a white board. He was a pale,
simple-looking man, of a spare and meagre habit, and sat among his
flowers and beehives, smoking his pipe, in the little porch before his
door.

'Speak to him, dear,' the old man whispered.

'I am almost afraid to d