st have been dreadfully uncomfortable."

"It was sometimes," said Joscelyn.

"Didn't it hurt?" asked Martin, beginning to lace up her shoes for her.

"Now and then," said Joscelyn.

"It was an awfully kiddish place to hide it in," said Martin finishing,
and as he looked up Joscelyn laughed again, rubbing her tear-stained
cheeks with the back of her hand, and for all the great growing girl
that she was looked no more than twelve. So he slid under the swing and
stood up behind her and kissed her on the back of the neck where babies
are kissed.

Then all the milkmaids came back again.

PART II

To every girl Martin handed her key. "This is your business," said he.
And first Joan, and next Joyce, and then Jennifer, and then Jessica,
and then Jane, and last of all Joscelyn, put her key into its lock and
turned. And not one of the keys would turn. They bit their lips and
held their breath, and turned and turned in vain.

"This is dreadful," said Martin. "Are you sure the keys are in the
right keyholes?"

"They all fit," said little Joan.

"Let me try," said Martin. And he tried, one after another, and then
tried each key singly in each lock, but without result. Jane said, "I
expect they've gone rusty," and Jessica said, "That must be it," and
Jennifer turned pale and said, "Then Gillian can never get out of the
Well-House or we out of the orchard." And Martin sat down in the swing
and thought and thought. As he thought he began to swing a little, and
then a little more, and suddenly he cried "Push me!" and the six girls
came behind him and pushed with all their strength. Up he went with his
legs pointed as straight as an arrow, and back he flew and up again.
The third time the swing flew clean over the Well-House, and as true as
a diving gannet Martin dropped from mid-air into the little court, and
stood face to face with Gillian.

PART III

She was not weeping. She was bathed in blushes and laughter. She held
out her hands to him, and Martin took them. She had golden hair of
lights and shadows like a wheatfield that fell in two thick plaits over
her white gown, and she had gray eyes where smiles met you like an
invitation, but you had to learn later that they were really a little
guard set between you and her inward tenderness, and that her gayety,
like a will-o'-the-wisp, led you into the flowery by-ways of her spirit
where fairies played, but not to the heart of it where angels dwelled.
Few succeeded in