at was not the end of the
matter.

We found ourselves there next day, Francesca and I,--Salemina was too
proud,--drawn by an insatiable longing to view the beloved and
forbidden scene. We did not dare to glance at the Disagreeable Woman's
windows, lest our courage should ooze away, so we opened the gate and
stole through into the rather private path.

It was a most lovely path; even if it had not been in a sense
prohibited, it would still have been lovely, simply on its own merits.
There were little gaps 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 labors 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 gray 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 tw