ock, I should think that
some experimenter had taken out her original works, and substituted
others to see how they would run. The clock has a New England case
and strikes with a New England tone, but the works do not match it
altogether. Of course I know that one does not ordinarily engage a
lady's-maid because of these piquant peculiarities; but in our case the
circumstances were extraordinary. I have explained them fully to Himself
in my letters, and Francesca too has written pages of illuminating
detail to Ronald Macdonald.

The similarity in the minds of men must sometimes come across them with
a shock, unless indeed it appeals to their sense of humour. Himself
in America, and the Rev. Mr. Macdonald in the north of Scotland, both
answered, in course of time, that a lady's-maid should be engaged
because is a lady's-maid and for no other reason.

Was ever anything duller than this, more conventional, more commonplace
or didactic, less imaginative? Himself added, "You are a romantic idiot,
and I love you more than tongue can tell." Francesca did not say what
Ronald added; probably a part of this same sentence (owing to the
aforesaid similarity of men's minds), reserving the rest for the frank
intimacy of the connubial state.

Everything looked beautiful in the uncertain glory of the April day.
The thistle-down clouds opened now and then to shake out a delicate,
brilliant little shower that ceased in a trice, and the sun smiled
through the light veil of rain, turning every falling drop to a jewel.
It was as if the fairies were busy at aerial watering-pots, without
any more serious purpose than to amuse themselves and make the earth
beautiful; and we realised that Irish rain is as warm as an Irish
welcome, and soft as an Irish smile.

Everything was bursting into new life, everything but the primroses, and
their glory was departing. The yellow carpet seemed as bright as ever
on the sunny hedgerow banks and on the fringe of the woods, but when we
plucked some at a wayside station we saw that they were just past their
golden prime. There was a grey-green hint of verdure in the sallows
that stood against a dark background of firs, and the branches of
the fruit-trees were tipped with pink, rosy-hued promises of May just
threatening to break through their silvery April sheaths. Raindrops
were still glistening on the fronds of the tender young ferns and on the
great clumps of pale, delicately scented bog violets that we f