It was soon quite ready on a plate on the hearth, so that it might keep hot. Uncle Joshua was ready also, for he came in just then from his shed, carrying his completed job in his hand: a pair of huge hobnailed boots, which he placed gently on the ground as though they were brittle and must be handled with care.

"Them's Peter Greenways' boots," he said, looking at them with some triumph, "and a good piece of work they be!"

It was a great relief to Lilac that neither then nor during the meal did Uncle Joshua look at her with surprise, or appear to notice that there was anything different about her. Everything went on just as usual, just as it had so often done before. She sat on one side of the table and poured out the tea, and Uncle Joshua in his high-backed elbow chair on the other, with his red-and-white handkerchief over his knees, his spectacles pushed up on his forehead, and a well-buttered slice of toast in his hand. He never talked much during his meals; partly because he was used to having them alone, and partly because he liked to enjoy one thing at a time thoroughly. He was fond of talking and he was fond of eating, and he would not spoil both by trying to do them together. So to-night, as usual, he drank endless cups of tea in almost perfect silence, and at last Lilac began to wish he would stop, for although she feared she yet longed for his opinion. She felt more able to face it now that she had eaten something, for without knowing it she had been hungry as well as miserable, and had quite forgotten that she had had no dinner. She watched Uncle Joshua nervously. Would he ask for more tea. No. He wiped his mouth with the red handkerchief, looked straight at Lilac, and suddenly spoke:

"And how's the picture going forrard then?"

After this question it was easy to tell the whole story, from its beginning to its unlucky end. During its progress the cobbler listened with the deepest attention, gave now a nod, and now a shake of the head or a muttered "Humph!" and when it was finished he fingered his cheek thoughtfully, and said:

"And so he wouldn't paint you—eh? and Mother was angry?"

"She's dreadful angry," sighed Lilac.

"Did you think it 'ud please her, now?" asked Uncle Joshua.

"N-no," answered Lilac hesitatingly; "but I never thought as how she'd make so much fuss. And after all no one don't like it. Do you think as how it looks very bad, Uncle?"

The cobbler put his spectacles carefully straight and studied Lilac's face with earnest attention. "What I consider is this here," he said as he finished his examination and leant back in his chair. "It makes you look like lots of other little gells, that's what it does. Not so much like White Lilac as you used to. I liked it best as it wur afore."

"Peter, he said that too," said Lilac. "No one likes it except Agnetta."

"Ah! And what made Agnetta and all of 'em cut their hair that way?" asked Uncle Joshua.

"Because Gusta Greenways told Bella as how all the ladies in London did it," answered Lilac simply.

"That's where it is," said Uncle Joshua. "My little maid, there's things as is fitting and there's things as isn't fitting. Perhaps it's fitting for London ladies to wear their hair so. Very well, then let them do it. But why should you and Agnetta and the rest copy 'em? You're not ladies. You're country girls with honest work to do, and proud you ought to be of it. As proud every bit as the grandest lady as ever was, who never put her hand to a useful thing in her life. I'm not saying you're better than her. She's got her own place, an' her own lessons to learn, an' she's got to do the best she can with her life. But you're different, because your life's different, an' you'll never look like her whatever you put on your outside. If a thing isn't fit for what it's intended, it'll never look well. Now, here's Peter's boots—I call 'em handsome."

He lifted one of them as he spoke and put it on the table, where it seemed to take up a great deal of room. Lilac looked at it with a puzzled air; she saw nothing handsome in it. It was enormously thick and deeply wrinkled across the toes, which were turned upwards as though with many and many a weary tramp.

"I call 'em handsome," pursued Joshua. "Because for why? Because they're fit for ploughin' in the stiffest soil. Because they'll keep out wet and never give in the seams. They're fit for what they're meant to do. But now you just fancy," he went on, raising one finger, "as how I'd made 'em of shiny leather, and put paper soles to 'em, and pointed tips to the toes. How'd they look in a ploughed field or a muddy lane? Or s'pose Peter he went and capered about in these 'ere on a velvet carpet an' tried to dance. How'd he look?"

The idea of the loutish Peter capering anywhere, least of all on a velvet carpet, made Lilac smile in spite of Uncle Joshua's great gravity.

"Why, he'd look silly," he continued; "as silly as a country girl, who's got to scrub an' wash an' make the butter, dressed out in silks an' fandangoes. She ought to be too proud of being what she is, to try and look like what she isn't. Give me down that big brown book yonder an' I'll read you something fine about that."

Lilac reached the book from the shelf with the greatest reverence; it was the only one amongst Joshua's collection that she often begged to look at, because it was full of curious pictures. It was Lavater's Physiognomy; having found the passage he wanted, Joshua read it very slowly aloud:

"In the mansion of God there are to his glory vessels of wood, of silver, and of gold. All are serviceable, all profitable, all capable of divine uses, all the instruments of God: but the wood continues wood, the silver silver, the gold gold. Though the golden should remain unused, still they are gold. The wooden may be made more serviceable than the golden, but they continue wood. Let each be what he is, so will he be sufficiently good, for man himself, and God. The violin cannot have the sound of the flute, nor the trumpet of the drum."

He had just finished the last line, and still held one knotty brown finger raised to mark the important words, when there was a low knock at the door, and immediately afterwards it opened a little way and a head appeared, covered by a rusty-black wideawake. It was the second time that day that Lilac had seen it, for it was Peter Greenways' head. In a moment all the events of the unlucky morning came back to her, and his gruffly unfavourable opinion. Why had he come? This awkward Peter was always turning up when he was not wanted, and thrusting that large uncouth head in at unexpected places. She turned her back towards the door in much vexation, and Peter himself remained stationary, with his eyes fixed where he had first directed them—on his own boot, which still stood on the table by Joshua's elbow. His first intention had evidently been to come in, but suddenly seized with shyness he was now unable to move.

"Why, Peter, lad," said the cobbler, "come in then; the boots is ready for you."

Thus invited Peter slowly opened the door a very little wider and squeezed himself into the room. He was indeed a very awkward-looking youth, and though he was broad-shouldered and strongly made, he was so badly put together that he did not seem to join properly anywhere, and moved with effort as though he were walking in a heavy clay soil. Everything about Peter, and even the colour of his clothes, made you think of a ploughed field, and he generally kept his eyes fastened on the ground as though following the course of a furrow. This was a pity, for his eyes were the only good features in his broad red face, and had the kindly faithful expression seen in those of some dogs.

As he stood there, ill at ease, with his enormous hands opening and shutting nervously, Lilac thought of Agnetta's speech: "Peter's so common." If to be common was to look like Peter, it was a thing to be avoided, and she was dismayed to hear Uncle Joshua say:

"Well, now, if you're not just in time to go home with Lilac here, seein' as how we've done our tea, and her mother'll be looking for her."

"Oh, Uncle, I'd rather not," said Lilac hastily. Then she added, "I want you to play me a tune before I go."

Joshua was always open to a compliment about his playing.

"Ah!" he said, "you want a tune, do you? Well, and p'r'aps Peter he'd like to hear it too."

As he spoke he gave the boots to Peter, who was now engaged in dragging up a leather purse from some great depth beneath his gaberdine. This effort, and the necessity of replying, flushed his face to a deeper red than ever, but he managed to say huskily as he counted some coin into Joshua's hand:

"No, thank you, Mr Snell. Can't stop tonight."

Nevertheless it was some moments before he could go away: he stood clasping his boots and staring at Joshua.

"The money's all right, my lad," said the latter.

"Well," said Peter, "I must be goin'." But he did not move.

"Well, good night, Peter," said Joshua, encouragingly.

"Good night, Mr Snell."

"Good night, Peter," said Lilac at length, nodding to him, and this seemed to rouse him, for with sudden energy he hurled himself towards the door and disappeared.

"Yon's an honest lad and a fine worker," remarked the cobbler, "but he do seem a bit tongue-tied now and then."

And now, after the tune was played, there was no longer any excuse to put off going home. For the first time in her life Lilac dreaded it, for instead of a smile of welcome she had only a frown of displeasure to expect from her mother. It was such a new thing that she shrank from it with fear, and found it almost as difficult to say goodbye as Peter had done. If only Uncle Joshua would go with her! Her face looked so wistful that he guessed her unspoken desire.

"Now I shouldn't wonder," he said, carefully thrusting the clarionet into its green baize bag, "as how you'd like me to go up yonder with you. And it do so happen as how I've got a job to take back to Dan'l Wishing, so I shall pass yours without goin' out of my way."

Accordingly, the door of the cottage being locked, the pair set out together a few moments later, Lilac walking very soberly by the cobbler's side, with one hand in his. Joshua's hand was rough with work, so that it felt like holding the bough of a gnarled elm tree, but it was so full of kindness that there was great comfort and support in it.

How would Mother receive them? Lilac hardly dared to look up when they got near the gate and saw her standing there, and hardly dared to believe her own ears when she heard her speak. For what she said was:

"Run in, child, and get yer tea. I've put it by."

She stayed a long time at the gate talking to Uncle Joshua, and Lilac, watching them through the window, felt little doubt that they were talking of her. When her mother came in, and was quite kind and gentle, and behaved just as usual, she felt still more sure that it was Uncle Joshua's wonderful wisdom that had done it all. But if she could have heard the conversation she would have been surprised, for they dwelt entirely on the cobbler's rheumatics and the chances of rain, and said no word of either Lilac or her fringe. Mrs White had had time to repent of her harsh words, and when the hours went by, and Lilac did not come back, she had pictured her receiving comfort and encouragement from the Greenways—the very people she wished her to avoid. Now she had driven her to them. "I could bite my tongue out for talking so foolish," she said to herself as she ran out to the gate, over and over again. When at last she saw the two well-known figures approaching, she could only just restrain herself from rushing out to meet Lilac and covering her with kisses. The relief was almost too great to bear.

In her own home, therefore, Lilac heard nothing further on the unlucky subject. But this was not by any means the case in the village, where nothing was too small to be important. The fact of the Widow White's Lilac wearing a fringe was quite enough to talk of, and more than enough to stare at, for it was something new. Unfortunately everyone knew Lilac, and Lilac knew everyone, so there was no escape. Her acquaintances would draw up in front of her and gaze steadily for an instant, after which the same remarks always came:

"My! you have altered yerself. I shouldn't never have known you, I do declare! And so you didn't have yer picter done after all?"

Lilac wished she could hide somewhere until her hair had grown long again. And worst of all, when Mrs Leigh next saw her in school, she looked quite startled and said:

"I'm so sorry you've cut your hair, Lilac; it looked much nicer before."

It was the same thing over and over again, no one approved the change but Agnetta, and Lilac's faith in her cousin was by this time a little bit shaken. She should not be so ready, she thought, the next time to believe that Agnetta must know best. One drop of comfort in all this was that the artist gentleman no longer sat painting at the bottom of the hill. He had packed up all his canvases and brushes and gone off to the station, so that Lilac saw him no more. She was very glad of this, for she felt that it would have been almost impossible to pass him every day and to see his keen disapproving glance fixed upon her. Slowly the picture that was to have been painted was forgotten, and Lilac White's fringe became a thing of custom. There were more important matters near at hand; May Day was approaching, an event of interest and excitement to both young and old.



CHAPTER FOUR.

WHO WILL BE QUEEN?

"When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight."—Shakespeare.

On the top of the ridge of hills which rose behind Mrs White's cottage there was a great beech wood, which could be reached in two ways. One was by following a rough stony road which got gradually steeper and was terribly hard for both man and beast, and the other was to take a chalky track which led straight across the rounded shoulder of the downs.

This last was considerably shorter, and by active people was always preferred to the road, although in summer it was glaring and unshaded. But the scramble was soon over, and in the deep quiet shelter of the woods it was cool on the hottest day, for the trees held their leaves so thickly over your head that it was better than any roof. The sun could not get through to scorch or dazzle, but it lit up the flickering sprays on the low boughs, so that looking through them you saw a silvery shimmering dance always going on. In the valley there had not perhaps been a breath of air, but up here a little ruffling breeze had its home, and was ready to fan you gently and hospitably directly you arrived.

Under your feet a red-and-brown carpet of last year's leaves was spread, stirred now and then with sudden mysterious rustlings as the small wild creatures darted away at the sound of your step. These and the birds shared the woods in almost complete solitude, disturbed now and again by the woodcutters, or boys from the village. But there was one day in the year when this quiet kingdom was strangely invaded, when its inhabitants fled to their most retired corners and peeped out with terrified eyes upon a very altered scene—and this was the first of May. Then everything was changed for a little while. Instead of the notes of the birds there were human voices calling to each other, laughing, singing, shouting, and the music of a band; instead of great silent spaces, there were many brightly-coloured figures which ran and danced. In the midst, where a clearing had been made and the oldest trees stood solemnly round, there appeared the slim form of a maypole decked with gay ribbons; near it a throne covered with hawthorn boughs, on which, dressed in white with garland and sceptre, was seated the Queen of the May. There with great ceremony she was crowned by her court, and afterwards led the dance round the maypole. Songs and feasting followed until the sun went down, and then the gay company marched away to the sounds of "God save the Queen." Quietness reigned in the woods again, and once more the wild creatures which lived there could roam and fly at their pleasure until next May Day.

Now this holiday, which was fast approaching again, was not only looked forward to with interest and excitement by the children, but was an event of importance to everyone in the village. The very oldest made shift somehow to get up to the woods and join in the rejoicing, and the most careworn and sorrowful managed to struggle out of their gloom for that one day, and to leave behind the dulness of their daily toil. Many, coming from distant parts of the parish, met for the only time throughout the year in the woods on May Day, and found the keenest pleasure in comparing the growth of their children, and talking of their neighbours' affairs. It was a source of pride and satisfaction, too, to fathers as well as mothers, to point out some child in the procession so bedecked with flowers that the real Johnnie was hardly visible, and say with a grin of delight:

"Why, it's our Johnnie, I do declare! Shouldn't never a known him." As the time came round again, therefore, it was more or less in everyone's mind in some way. For one thing: Would it be fine? That affected everyone's comfort, for a cold wet May Day could be nothing but a miserable failure. Mr Dimbleby at the shop had his own anxieties, for it was his business to provide tea, bread and butter, and cake for the whole assembly, and to get it all up to the top of the hill—no small matter. To do this it was necessary to keep his mind steadily fixed on May Day for a whole week beforehand, and not to allow it to relax for an instant. The drum-and-fife band, who felt themselves the pride and ornament of the occasion, had to practise new tunes and polish up "God save the Queen" to a great pitch of perfection, and the children thought themselves busier than anyone. Not only had they to wonder who would be Queen, but they must meet in the Vicarage garden and learn how to dance round the maypole, singing at the same time. Not only must they present themselves at all sorts of odd hours to have some wonderful costume "tried on" by Miss Ellen and Miss Alice, but above all they had to gather the flowers for the wreaths and garlands. Sometimes, if the season were cold and backward, it was difficult to get enough; but this year, as Lilac had noticed with delight, it had been so bright and mild that the meadows were thick with blossoms and there was no fear of any scarcity. She was always amongst the children chosen "to gather"; and there was more in this office than might at first appear, for there were good gatherers and bad gatherers. It might be done carelessly and in a half-hearted manner, or with full attention and earnest effort, and these results were evident when each child brought her own collection to the school room on May morning. The contents of the baskets were very different, for some showed plainly that as little trouble as possible had been taken. These flowers were picked anyhow, with short stalks or long stalks, in bud or too fully blown, faded or fresh, just as they happened to grow and could be most easily got. Others, again, you could see at the first glance, had been gathered with care and thought, the finest specimens chosen just at the right stage of blossoming, and tied in neat bunches with the stalks all of one length. You might be sure that the flowers in these baskets were quite as good at the bottom as those on the top. Now, Lilac White was a gatherer on whom you might depend, and the ladies at the Rectory who made the wreaths, and dressed the Queen, and arranged the festivities, considered her their best support in the matter of flowers. For, by reason of having had her eye upon them for weeks beforehand, she knew every spring where the finest grew, whether they were early or late, and whether they would be ready for the great occasion. When they had to be gathered she spared no trouble, but would get up at any hour so that they might be picked before the sun scorched them, walk any distance or climb the steepest hills to get the very finest possible. She was always appealed to when any question arose about the flowers. "We must ask Lilac White whether the king-cups are out," Miss Ellen would say; and Lilac was always able to tell. She filled, therefore, a very pleasant and important post at these times, and took great pride in it; but her Cousin Agnetta looked at this part of the affair differently. To her there was neither pleasure nor profit in "mucking" about in the damp fields, as she said, getting her feet wet, and spoiling her frock in stooping about after the flowers. She wished Mrs Leigh would let them wear artificials, which were quite as pretty to look at, and did not fade or get messy, and were no bother at all. You could wear 'em time after time. Agnetta felt quite sure she should be Queen this year, and although she did not like the trouble beforehand she looked forward to the event itself very much indeed. There were many agreeable things about it: the white dress, the crown, the crowd of people looking on, and the fact of being first amongst her companions. It was a little vexing that Lilac was quicker to learn the steps of the dance Miss Ellen was teaching them, and could sing the May-Day song better than she could. Agnetta always sang out of tune, and tumbled over her own feet in the dance; but she consoled herself by remembering how well she should look as Queen dressed all in white, with her red cheeks and frizzy black hair. Meanwhile the Queen was not yet chosen, but would be voted for in the school a week beforehand.

Who would be chosen? It was a question which occupied a good many minds just then, and amongst them one which was not supposed to trouble itself about such matters, or to have anything to do with merry-making. This was Peter Greenways' mind. He was so dull and silent, and worked so very hard all the year, that it was an ever fresh surprise to see him appear with the rest on May Day, and came natural to say, "What, you here, Peter!" although he had never missed a single occasion. He expressed no pleasure, and showed no outward sign of enjoyment; but he always went, to the great vexation of his sisters, who were heartily ashamed of him. His face was red, his figure was loutish—it was impossible to smarten him up or make him look like other folks; he continued, in spite of all their efforts, to be just plain Peter—"dreadful vulgar" in his appearance. And the worst of it was, that you could not overlook him in the crowd. This might have been the case if he had been allowed to wear his ordinary working-clothes, but Peter in his "best" was an object which seemed to stand out from all others, and to be present wherever the eye turned.

On the day which was to decide the important question, Peter had been ploughing in a part of his father's land called the High Field. All the rest lay level on the plain round about the farm, but this one field was on the shoulder of the downs, so that from it you looked far over the distant valley, with its little clusters of villages dotted here and there. Immediately below was the grey church of Danecross, the rectory, the school-house, and a group of cottages all nestling sociably together; farther on, Orchards Farm peeped out from amongst the trees, which were still white with blossom, and above all this came the cold serious outline of the chalk hills, broken here and there by the beech woods. Peter never felt so happy as when he was looking at this from the High Field, with his dinner in his pocket and the prospect of a long day's work before him. It was so far away from all that disturbed and worried; no one to scold, no one to call him clumsy, no one to look angrily at him, no sounds of dispute. Only the voice of the wind, which blew so freshly up here and seemed to cheer him on, and the song of the larks high above his head, and for companions his good beasts with no reproof in their patient eyes, but only obedience and kindness. Peter was master in the High Field. No one could do a better day's work or drive a straighter furrow, and he was proud of it, and proud of his team—three iron-greys, with white manes and tails, called "Pleasant", "Old Pleasant", and "Young Pleasant." Yet though he did his ploughing well, it by no means occupied all his mind. As he trudged backwards and forwards with bent head, and hands grasping the handles, with now and then a shout to his horses, and now and then a pause for rest, his thoughts were free as the wind, flying about to an sorts of subjects. For this silent Peter had always something to wonder about. He never asked questions now as he had done at school: he had been laughed at so much then, that he knew well enough by this time that he only wondered so much because he was more stupid than other folks; it must be so, for the most common things which he saw every day, and which wise people took as a matter of course, were enough to puzzle him and fill his mind with wonder. The stars, the flowers, the sunset, the sound of the wind, the very pebbles turned up by the ploughshare, gave him strange feelings which he did not understand and which he carefully hid. They would have been explained, he knew, if he had expressed them, by the sentence, "Peter's not all there"; and he was sometimes quite inclined to think that this was really the case. To-day his thoughts had been fixed on the approaching holiday, and on all the delights of the past one. It was to him a most beautiful and even solemn occasion, and he could recall the very smallest detail of it from year to year: even the uncertain squeaks and flourishes of the drum and fife band were something to be remembered with pleasure. As his eye rested on the school-house, a small red dot in the distance, he wondered if they had settled on the Queen yet, and whether Agnetta would be chosen. "She'll be rarely vexed if she ain't," he thought seriously. So the day went by, and after five o'clock had sounded from the church tower Peter and his beasts left off work and went leisurely down the hill towards home; two of the Pleasants in front with their harness clanking and flapping loosely about them, and their master following, seated sideways on the back of the third. Peter had done a long day's work and was hungry, but he did not go into the house till he had seen his horses attended to by Ben Pinhorn, who was in the yard when they arrived. Even after this he was further delayed, for as he was crossing the lane which separated the farm buildings from the house an ugly cat ran to meet him, rubbed against his legs, and mewed.

"Jump, then, Tib," said Peter encouragingly; and Tib jumped, arriving with outspread claws on the front of his waistcoat and thence to his shoulder. Thus accompanied he went to the kitchen window and tapped softly, which signal brought Molly the servant girl with a saucer of skim milk.

"There's your supper, Tib," said Peter as he set it on the ground, and stood looking heavily down at the cat till she had lapped up the last drop. And in this there was reason; for Sober the sheepdog, lying near, had his eye on the saucer, and only waited for Tib to be undefended to advance and finish the milk himself.

Being now quite ready for his own refreshment Peter made his way through the back kitchen into the general living-room of the family, which also, much to Bella's disgust, had the appearance of a kitchen. It was large and comfortable, with three windows in it, looking across the garden to the orchard, but, alas! it had a great fireplace and oven, where cooking often went on, and an odious high settle sticking out from one corner of the chimney. This was enough to deprive it of all gentility, without mentioning the long deal table at which in former times the farmer had been used to dine with his servants. They were banished now to the back kitchen, but this was the only reform Bella and Gusta had been able to make. Nothing would induce their father to sit in the parlour, where there was a complete set of velvet-covered chairs, a sofa, a piano, a photograph-book, and a great number of anti-macassars and mats. All these elegances were not enough to make him give up his warm corner in the settle, where he could stretch out his legs at his ease and smoke his pipe. Mrs Greenways herself, though she was proud of her parlour, secretly preferred the kitchen, as being more handy and comfortable, so that except on great occasions the parlour was left in chilly loneliness. When Peter entered there were only his mother and Bella in the room. The latter stood at the table with a puzzled frown on her brow, and a large pair of scissors in her hand; before her were spread paper patterns, fashion-books, and some pieces of black velveteen, which she was eyeing doubtfully, and, placing in different ways so that it might be cut to the best advantage. Bella was considered a fine young woman. She had a large frame like all the Greenways, and nature had given her a waist in proportion to it. She had, however, fought against nature and conquered, for her figure now resembled an hour-glass—very wide at the top, and suddenly very small in the middle. Like Agnetta she had a great deal of colour, frizzy black hair, and a good-natured expression, but her face was just now clouded by some evident vexation.

"Lor', Bella," said her mother, turning round from the hearth, "put away them fal-lals—do. Here's Peter wanting his tea, and your father'll be along from market directly." Bella did not answer, partly because her mouth was full of pins, and Mrs Greenways continued: "You might hurry and get the tea laid just for once. I'm clean tired out."

"Where's Molly?" muttered Bella indistinctly.

"Molly indeed!" exclaimed her mother impatiently. "It's Molly here and Molly there. One 'ud think she had a hundred legs and arms for all you think she can do. Molly's scrubbing out the dairy, which she ought to a done this morning."

"It won't run to it after all!" exclaimed Bella, dashing her scissors down on the table; "not by a good quarter of a yard."

"An' you've been and wasted pretty nigh all the afternoon over it," said Mrs Greenways. "I do wish Gusta wouldn't send you them patterns, that I do."

"I've cut up the skirt of my velveteen trying to fashion it," said Bella, looking mournfully at the plate in Myra's Journal, "so now I'm ever so much worse off than I was afore. Lor', Peter!" she added, as her eye fell on her brother, "do go and take off that horrid gaberdine and them boots. You look for all the world like Ben Pinhorn, there ain't a pin to choose between you."

"You oughtn't to speak so sharp," said her mother, as Peter slouched out of the room. "I know what it is to feel spent like that after a day's work. You just come in and fling down where you are and as you are, boots or no boots."

As she spoke the rattle of wheels was heard outside, and then the click of a gate.

"There now!" she exclaimed, starting up; "there is yer father. Back already, and a fine taking he'll be in to see all this muss about and no tea ready. He's short enough always when he's bin to market, without anything extry to vex him." She swept Bella's scraps, patterns, and books unceremoniously into a heap, and directly afterwards the tramp of heavy feet sounded in the passage, and the farmer entered. His first glance as he threw himself on the settle was at the table, where Bella was hurriedly clearing away her confused mass of working materials.

"Be off with all that rubbish and let's have tea," he said crossly. "Why can't it be ready when I come in?"

"You're a bit earlier than usual, Richard," said his wife; "but you'll have it in no time now. The kettle's on the boil."

She made anxious signs to Bella to quicken her movements, for she saw that the farmer was in a bad humour. Things had not gone well at market.

"And what did you see at Lenham?" she asked, as she began to put the cups and saucers on the table.

"Nawthing," answered Mr Greenways, staring at the fire.

"What did you hear then?" persisted his wife.

"Nawthing," was the answer again.

Mother and daughter exchanged meaning looks. The farmer jerked his head impatiently round.

"What I want to see is summat to eat, and what I want to hear is no more questions till I've got it. So there!"

He thrust out his legs, pushed his hands deep down in his pockets, and with his chin sunk on his breast sat there a picture of moody discontent.

After a good deal of clatter and bustle, and calls for Molly, the tea was ready at last—a substantial meal, but somewhat untidily served—and Peter, having changed the offensive gaberdine for a shiny black cloth coat, having joined them, the party sat down. It was a very silent one, for no one dared to address another remark to the farmer until he had satisfied his appetite, which took some time. At last, however, as he handed his cup to his wife to be refilled, he asked:

"Who made the butter this week?"

"Why, Molly, as always makes it," answered Mrs Greenways. "Wasn't it good. I thought it looked beautiful."

"Well, all I know is," said the farmer moodily, "that Benson told me to-day that if this lot was like the last he wouldn't take no more."

"Lor', Richard, you don't really mean it!" said Mrs Greenways, setting down the teapot with a thump. "Whatever shall we do if Benson won't take the butter?"

"You can't expect him to take it if it ain't good," answered the farmer. "I don't blame him; he's got to sell it again."

"It's that there good-for-nothing Molly," said Mrs Greenways. "I'm always after her about the dairy, yet if my head's turned a minute she'll forget to scald her pans, and that gives the butter a sour taste."

"All I know is, it's a hard thing, that with good pasture and good cows, and three women indoors, the butter can't be made so as it's fit to sell," said Mr Greenways, hitting the table with his fist.

"What's the use of Bella and Agnetta, I should like to know?"

Bella tossed her head and smiled. "Lor', Pa, how you talk!" she said mincingly.

"They've never been taught nothing of such things," said Mrs Greenways; "and besides, Agnetta's got her schooling yet awhile."

"Fancy me," said Bella with a giggle, "making the butter with my sleeves tucked up like Molly. I hope I'm above that sort of thing. I didn't go to Lenham finishing school to learn that."

"I can't find out what it was you did learn there," growled her father, "except to look down on everything useful. I'll not have Agnetta sent there, I know. Not if I had the money, I wouldn't. It's bad enough to have bad seasons and poor crops to do with out-of-doors, without having a set of dressed-up lazy hussies in the house, who mar more than they make. Where to turn for money I don't know, and there's going on for three years' rent owing to Mr Leigh."

He got up as he spoke and left the room, followed by Peter. Bella continued her tea placidly. Father was always cross on market days, and it did not impress her in the least to be called lazy; she was far more interested in the fate of her velveteen dress than in the quality of the butter. But this was not the case with Mrs Greenways. To hear that Benson had threatened not to take the butter was a real as well as a new trouble, and alarmed her greatly. The rent owing and the failing crops were such a very old story that she had ceased to heed it much, but what would happen if the butter was not sold? The dairy was one of their largest sources of profit, and, as the farmer had said, the pasture was good and the cows were good. There was no fault out-of-doors. Whose fault was it? Molly's without doubt. "But then," reflected Mrs Greenways, "she have got a sight to do, and you can't hurry butter; you must have care and time." She sighed as she glanced at Bella's strong capable form. Perhaps it would have been better after all, as Mrs White had so often said, to bring up her girls to understand household matters, instead of being stylishly idle. "I did it for their good," thought poor Mrs Greenways; "and anyhow, it's too late to alter 'em now. They'd no more take to it than ducks to flying." She was startled out of these reflections by the sudden entrance of Agnetta, who burst into the room with a hot excited face, and flung her bag of books into a corner.

"Well," said Bella, looking calmly at her, "I s'pose you're to be Queen, ain't you?"

"No!" exclaimed Agnetta angrily, "I ain't Queen; and it's a shame, so it is."

"Why, whoever is it, then?" asked Bella, open-mouthed.

"They've been and chosen Lilac White; sneaking little thing!" said Agnetta.

"Well, now, surely, I am surprised," said her mother. "I made sure they'd choose you, Agnetta; being the oldest, and the best lookin', and all. I do call it hard."

"It's too bad," continued Agnetta, thus encouraged; "after I've been such a friend to her, and helped her cut her hair. It's ungrateful. She might have told me."

"Why, I don't suppose she knew it, did she?" said Bella.

"She went all on pretending she wanted me Queen," said Agnetta, "as innocent as you please. And she must a known there were a lot meant to vote for her. I call it mean."

"Never you mind, Agnetta," said her mother soothingly; "come and get yer tea, and here's a pot of strawberry jam as you're fond of. She'll never make half such a good Queen as you, and I dessay you'll look every bit as fine now, when you're dressed."

"I don't want no strawberry jam," said Agnetta sullenly, kicking at the leg of the table.

"Mercy me!" said poor Mrs Greenways with a sigh, "everything do seem to go crossways today."



CHAPTER FIVE.

MAY DAY.

"But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, For I'm to be Queen of the May, mother, I'm to be Queen of the May!" —Tennyson.

Agnetta had been quite wrong in saying that Lilac had any idea of being Queen. At the school that afternoon, when amidst breathless silence the Mistress had counted up the votes and said: "Lilac White is chosen Queen", it had been such a surprise to her that she had stood as though in a dream. Her companions nudged her on either side. "It's you that's Queen," they whispered; and at length she awoke to the wonderful fact that it was not Agnetta or anyone else who had the most votes, but she herself, Lilac White. She was Queen! Looking round, still half-puzzled to believe such a wonderful thing, she saw a great many pleased faces, and heard Mrs Leigh say: "I think you have chosen very well, and I am glad Lilac will be Queen this year." It was, then, really true. "How pleased Mother'll be!" was her first thought; but her second was not so pleasant, for her eye fell on Agnetta. It was the only sullen face there; disappointment and vexation were written upon it, and there was no answering glance of sympathy from the downcast eyes. Lilac was an impulsive child, and affection for her friend made her forget everything else for the moment. She left her place, went up to Mrs Leigh, who was talking to the schoolmistress, and held one arm out straight in front of her.

"Well, Lilac," said Mrs Leigh kindly, "what is it?"

"Please, ma'am," said Lilac, dropping a curtsy, "if they don't mind, I'd rather Agnetta Greenways was Queen."

"Oh, that's quite out of the question," said Mrs Leigh decidedly; "when the Queen's been once chosen it can't be altered. Why, I should have thought you would have been pleased."

Lilac hung her head, and went back to her place rather abashed. She was pleased, and she did not like Mrs Leigh to think she did not care. Her whole heart was full of delight at receiving such an honour, but at the same time it was hard for Agnetta, who had so set her mind on being Queen. If only she could be Queen too! That being impossible, Lilac had done her best in offering to give it up, and it was disappointing to find that her friend, far from being grateful, was cross and sulky with her and quite out of temper. When the other children crowded round Lilac with pleased faces Agnetta held back, and had not one kind word to say, but refusing an advances flung herself away from her companions and rushed home full of wrath. Lilac looked after her wistfully; it hurt her to think that Agnetta could behave so. "After all," she said to herself, "I couldn't help them choosing me, and I did offer to give it up."

Everyone else was glad that she was Queen, and ready with a smile and a nod when they met her. If Agnetta had only been pleased too Lilac's happiness would have been perfect, but that was just the one thing wanting. However, even with this drawback there was a great deal of pleasure to look forward to, and when she went to the Rectory to have the white dress fitted on she was almost as excited as though it was really a royal robe.

"It's a pity about the fringe, Lilac," said Miss Ellen as she pinned and arranged the long train; "it's not nearly so becoming." Then seeing the excited face suddenly downcast she added: "Never mind; I dare say the crown will partly hide it."

Her arrangements finished, she called her sister, and they both surveyed Lilac gravely, who, a little abashed by such business-like observation, stood before them shyly in her straight white gown, with the train fastened on her shoulders.

"I think she'll do very nicely," said Miss Alice, "when she gets the flowers on. They make all the difference. What will she wear?"

Miss Ellen's opinion was decided on that point. "It ought to be white lilac, and plenty of it," she said, "nothing would suit the Queen so well." Then came a difficulty: there was none nearer than Cuddingham. Could it be got in time?

Lilac was doubtful, for Cuddingham was a long way off, but she promised to do her best, and Miss Ellen's last words to her were:

"Bring moon daisies if you can't get it, but remember I should like white lilac much the best."

Lilac herself thought the moon daisies would be prettier, with their bright yellow middles; but Miss Ellen's word was law, and as she had set her heart on white lilac, some way of going to Cuddingham must be found since it was too far to walk. There were only two days now to the great event, and during them Lilac did her best to make her wants known everywhere. In vain, however. No one was going to or coming from that place; always the same disappointing answers:

"Cuddingham! No, thank goodness; I was there last week. I don't want to see that hill again yet a while." Or, "Well now, if I'd known yesterday I might a suited you." And so on.

Lilac began to despair. She thought of Orchards Farm, but she had not courage to ask any favour there while Agnetta was so vexed with her. Even Uncle Joshua, who had always helped her at need, had nothing to suggest now, and did not even seem to think it of much importance. He dropped in to see Mrs White on the evening before May Day, and with her usual faith in him Lilac at once began to place her difficulty before him. But for once he was not ready to listen, and she was obliged to wait impatiently while he carried on a long conversation with her mother. They had a great deal to talk of, and it was most uninteresting to Lilac, for it was all about things of the past in which she had had no share. She might have liked it at another time, but just now she was full of the present, and she became more and more impatient as Uncle Joshua went on. He had to call back the first celebration of May Day which he "minded", and the smallest event connected with it; and when he had done Mrs White took up the tale, dwelling specially on Jem's musical talent, and how he had been the very soul of the drum-and-fife band.

"They're all at sixes and sevens now, to my thinking," she said. "Jem, he kep' 'em together and made 'em do their best."

"Aye, that's where it is," said the cobbler with an approving nod; "that's what we've all on us got to do."

His eye rested as he spoke on Lilac's eager face, and seizing the opportunity of a pause she rushed in with what she had so much on her mind:

"Oh, Uncle Joshua! to-morrow's the day, and I can't get no white lilac for Miss Ellen to make my garland with. What shall I do?"

But Joshua was in a moralising mood, and though Lilac's question gave him another subject to discourse on, he was more bent on hearing himself talk than in getting over her difficulty. He raised one finger and began to speak slowly, and when Mrs White saw that, she paused with the kettle in her hand and stood quite still to listen. Joshua was going to say something "good."

"It don't matter a bit," he said, "what you make your garland of. Flowers is all perishin' things and they'll be dead next day, and wear what you will, they won't make you into a real Queen. But there's things as will always make folks bow down when they see 'em, May Day or no May Day, and them's the things you ought to seek for, early and late till you find 'em. You take a lot of pains to get flowers to deck your outsides, but you don't care much for the plants I'm thinking of; you leave 'em to chance, and so sometimes they're choked out by the weeds. An' yet they're worth takin' trouble for, and if you once get 'em to take root and grow they're fit to crown the finest Queen as ever was; and they won't die either, but the more you use 'em the fresher and sweeter they'll be. There's Love now; you can't understand anyone, not the smallest child, without that. There's Truth; you can't do anything with folks unless they trust you. There's Obedience; you can't rule till you know how to serve. There's three plants for you, and there's a whole lot more, but that's enough for you to bear in mind, and I must be going along."

Joshua departed much satisfied with his eloquence, leaving Mrs White equally impressed.

"Lor'!" she exclaimed, "there's a gifted man. It's every bit as good as being in church to hear him. And I hope, Lilac, as how you'll lay it to heart and mind it when you get to be a woman."

But Lilac did not feel in the least inclined to lay it to heart. She was vexed with Uncle Joshua, who had not been the least help in her perplexity; for once he had failed her, and she was glad he had gone away so that she could think over a plan for to-morrow. It was of no use evidently to reckon on white lilac any longer, the only thing to be done now was to get up very early the next morning and pick the best moon daisies she could find for Miss Ellen. This determination was so strong within her when she fell asleep, that she woke with a sudden start next morning as the daylight was just creeping through her lattice. Had she overslept herself? No, it was beautifully early, it must be an hour at least before her usual time. She dressed herself quickly and quietly, so as not to disturb her mother in the next room, and then pushing open her tiny window gave an anxious look at the weather. Would it be fine? At present a thin misty grey veil was spread over everything, but she could see the village below, which looked fast, fast asleep, with no smoke from its chimneys and nothing stirring. There was such a stillness everywhere that it seemed wrong to make a noise, as though you were in church. And the birds felt it too, for they twittered in a subdued manner, keeping back their full burst of song to greet someone who would come presently. Lilac knew who that was. She knew as well as the birds that very soon the sun would thrust away the misty veil and show his beaming face to the valley. It would be fine. It was May Day, and she was Queen!

She drew a deep breath of delight, went downstairs on tiptoe, found a basket and a knife, tied on her bonnet, and unlatched the door; but there she stopped short, checked on the threshold by a sight so surprising that for a moment she could not move. For at her feet, on the doorstep, lying there purely white as though it had fallen from the clouds, was a great mass of white lilac. There were branches and branches of it, so that the air was filled with its gentle delicate scent, and it was so fresh that all its leaves were moist with dew. Someone had been up earlier even than herself. The question was—who?

Uncle Joshua of course; he had not failed after all, though how even such a very clever man could have got to Cuddingham and back since last night was more than Lilac could tell. That did not matter. There it was, and what a fine lot of it! "He must have brought away nigh a whole bush," she said to herself. "Miss Ellen will be rare and pleased, surely." She gathered up the sweet-smelling boughs at last, and put them into one of her mother's washing-baskets. There was no need to pick moon daisies now, and as she swept and dusted the room and lit the fire she gave many looks of admiration at her treasure, and many grateful thoughts to Uncle Joshua. Mrs White also had no doubt that he had managed it somehow; and she was so moved by the fact of his kindness, and by Lilac being Queen, and by a hundred past memories, that her usual composure left her, and she threw her apron over her head and had a good cry.

"There!" she said when it was over, "I can't think what makes me so silly. But Jem he would a been proud to have seen you—he always liked the laylocks."

But now came the question as to how it was to be carried down the hill to the school room. Lilac could not lift the great basket, and it was at last found best to pile up the branches in her long white pinafore, which she held by the two corners. When all was ready she looked seriously across the fragrant burden, which reached up to her chin, and said:

"You'll be sure and be up there in time, won't you, Mother, or you won't see me crowned?"

"No fear," said Mrs White as she held the gate open. "Mind and walk steady or you'll drop some, and you can't pick it up if you do."

Lilac nodded. She was almost too excited to speak. If it felt like this to be Queen of the May, she wondered what it must be like to be a real Queen!

It was a glorious morning. The mist had gone, the sun had come, and all the birds were singing their best tunes to welcome him. To Lilac they sounded more than usually gay, as though they were telling each other all sorts of pleasant things. "The sun is here—it is May Day—Lilac is Queen." All the trees too, as they bent in the breeze, seemed to talk together with busy murmurs and whisperings: they tossed their heads and threw up their hands as if in surprise at some news, and then bowed low and gracefully before her, for what they had heard was—"Lilac White is Queen!"

Her heart danced so to listen to them that it was quite difficult to keep her feet to a measured step, but when she reached the turn of the hill something made her feel that she must look back. She turned slowly round. There was Mother waving her hand at the gate. When they next met it would be up in the woods, and Lilac would wear crown and garland. She could not wave her hand or even nod in return, but she made a sort of little curtsy and went on her way.

At the bottom of the hill she met Mrs Wishing, who, bent nearly double by a heavy bundle, was crawling up from the village.

"Well, you look happy anyhow, Lilac White," she said mournfully. "And you haven't forgotten to bring enough flowers with you either."

"I can't stop," said Lilac, "I've got to go and put these on Father first. It's so far for Mother to come."

She gave a movement of her chin towards the primrose wreath which Mrs White had added at the last moment to the heap of flowers.

"Ah! well," sighed Mrs Wishing, "in the midst of life we are in death. I haven't much heart for junketing myself, but I shall be up yonder this afternoon if I'm spared."

Lilac passed quickly on, nodding and smiling in return to the greetings which met her. At the door of the shop stood Mr Dimbleby, his face heavier than usual with importance, and a little farther on she saw her Uncle Greenways' wagon and team waiting in charge of Ben, who leant lazily against one of the horses. Mr Greenways always lent a wagon on May Day so that the very old people and small children might drive up the worst part of the hill. Certainly it was there in plenty of time, for it would not be wanted till the afternoon; but it is always well not to be hurried on such occasions, and many of the people had to walk from outlying hamlets.

Lilac laid her primroses on her father's grave, and turned back towards the school-house just as the clock struck twelve. There were now many other little figures hurrying in the same direction with businesslike step, and all carrying flowers. Primroses, daisies, buttercups, cowslips, and honeysuckle were to be seen, but there was nothing half so beautiful as the heap of white lilac. Agnetta saw it as she passed into the school room, and gave an astonished stare and a sniff of displeasure: she had only brought a basket of small daisies, and had taken no trouble about them, so that her offering was not noticed or praised at all. Then Lilac advanced, and dropping her little curtsy stood silently in front of Miss Ellen and Miss Alice holding out her pinafore to its widest extent. There were exclamations of admiration and surprise from everyone, and Agnetta stamped her foot with vexation to hear them.

"It's exquisite!" said Miss Ellen at last. "Where did you get such a beautiful lot of it?"

"Please, ma'am, I don't know," said Lilac. "I found it on the doorstep."

Agnetta's wrath grew higher every moment. No one paid her any attention, and here was her insignificant cousin Lilac the centre of everyone's interest. She overheard a whisper of Miss Alice's: "She'll make far the loveliest Queen we've ever had."

What could it be they admired in Lilac? Agnetta stood with a pout on her lips, idle, while all round the busy work and chatter went on.

"Now, Agnetta," said Miss Ellen, bustling up to her, "there's plenty to do. Get me some twine and some wire, and if you're very careful you may help me with the Queen's sceptre."

It was a hateful office, but there was no help for it, and Agnetta had to humble herself in the Queen's service for the rest of the morning. To kneel on the floor, pick off small sprays from the bunches of lilac, and hand them up to Miss Ellen as she wove them into garland and sceptre. While she did it her heart was hot within her, and she felt that she hated her cousin. The work went on quickly but very silently inside the schoolroom. There was no time to talk, for the masses of flowers which covered table, benches, and floor had all to be changed into wreaths and garlands before one o'clock, for the Queen and her court. Outside it was not so quiet. An eager group had gathered there long ago, composed of the drum-and-fife band, which broke out now and then into fragments of tunes, the boy with the maypole on his shoulder, and bearers of sundry bright flags and banners. To these the time seemed endless, and they did their best to shorten it by jokes and laughter; it was only the close neighbourhood of the schoolmaster which prevented the boldest from climbing up to the high window and hanging on by his hands to see how matters were going on within. But at last the latch clicked, the door opened wide: there stood the smiling little white Queen with her gaily dressed court crowding at her back. There was a murmur of admiration, and the band, gazing open-mouthed, almost forgot to strike up "God save the Queen." For there was something different about this Queen to any they had seen before. She was so delicately white, so like a flower herself, that looking out from the blossoms which surrounded her she might have been the spirit of a lilac bush suddenly made visible. The white lilac covered her dress in delicate sprays, it bordered the edge of her long train, it twined up the tall sceptre in her hand, it was woven into the crown which was carried after her. At present the Queen's head was bare, for she would not be crowned till she reached her throne in the woods.

Then the procession began its march, band playing, banners fluttering bravely in the wind, through the village first, so that all those who could not get up the hill might come to their doors and windows to admire. Then leaving the highroad it came to the steep ascent, and here the wind blowing more freshly almost caught away the Queen's train from the grasp of her two little pages. The band, in spite of gallant struggles, became short of breath, so that the music was wild and uncertain; and the smaller courtiers straggled behind unable to keep up with the rest.

It made its way, however, notwithstanding these difficulties, and from the top of the hill where crowds of people had now gathered it was watched by eager and interested eyes. First it looked in the distance like a struggling piece of patchwork on the hillside, then it took shape and they could make out the maypole and the flags, then, nearer still, the sounds of the three tunes which the band played over and over again were wafted to their ears, and at last the small white figure of the Queen herself could plainly be distinguished from the rest. It did not take long after this to reach level ground, and as the procession moved along with recovered breath and dignity to the music of "God save the Queen", it was followed by admiring remarks from all sides:

"See my Johnnie! Him in the pink cap. Bless his 'art, how fine he looks!" Or "There's Polly Ann with the wreath of daisies!"

"Well now," said Mrs Pinhorn, "I will say Lilac looks as peart and neat as a little bit of waxworks."

"She wants colour, to my thinking," said Mrs Greenways, to whom this was addressed.

The Greenways stood a little aloof from the general crowd, dressed with great elegance. Bella rather looked down on the whole affair. "It's so mixed," she said; "but we have to go, because Papa don't wish to offend Mr Leigh."

"I call that a real pretty sight," said Joshua Snell, turning to his neighbour, who happened to be Peter Greenways. "They've dressed her up very fitting in all them lilac blooms. But wherever did they get such a sight of 'em?"

Peter had been forced into a shiny black suit of clothes, a stiff collar, and a bright blue necktie, that he might not disgrace the stylish appearance of his mother and sisters. In this attire he felt even less at his ease than usual, and his arms hung before him as helplessly as those of a stuffed figure. Perhaps it was owing to this state of discomfort that he made no other answer to Joshua's remark than a nervous grin.

"I don't see the Widder White anywheres," continued Joshua, looking round; "but there's such a throng one can't tell who's who."

Lilac, too, had been looking in vain for her mother amongst the groups of people she had passed through, and as she took her seat on the hawthorn-covered throne she gazed wistfully to right and left. No, Mother was not there. Plenty of well-known faces, but not the one she wanted most to see.

"She promised to be in time," she said to herself, "and now she'll miss the crowning." It was a dreadful pity, for Lilac could only be Queen once in her life, and it seemed to take away the best part of the pleasure for Mother not to be there. She had been looking forward to it for so long. What could have kept her away? The Queen's eyes filled with tears of disappointment, and through them the form of Peter Greenways seemed to loom unnaturally large, his face redder than ever above his blue neckcloth, his mouth and eyes wide open. Lilac checked her tears and remembered her exalted position. She must not cry now; but directly the crowning and the dance were over she resolved to search for her mother, and if she were not there to go home and see what had prevented her coming.

This determination enabled her to bear her honours with becoming dignity, and to put aside her private anxiety for the time like other royal personages. She danced round the maypole with her court, and led the May-Day song as gaily as if her pleasure had been quite perfect. But it was not; for all the while she was wondering what could possibly have become of her mother.

At last, her public duties over, the Queen found herself at liberty. The crowd had dispersed now, and was broken up into little knots of people chatting together and waiting for the next excitement—tea-time.

Through these Lilac passed with always the same question: "Have you seen Mother?" Sometimes in the distance she fancied she saw a shawl of a pattern she knew well, but having pursued it, it turned out to belong to someone quite different. She had just made up her mind to go home, when one of her companions ran up to her with an excited face:

"Come along," she cried; "they're just agoin' to start the races."

Lilac hesitated. "I can't," she said; "I've got to go and look after Mother."

"Well, it'll be on your way," said the other; "and you needn't stop no longer nor you like. Come along."

She seized Lilac's arm and they ran on together to the flat piece of ground on the edge of the wood, where the races were to take place. The steep side of the down descended abruptly from this, and Lilac knew that by taking that way, which was quite an easy one to her active feet, she could very quickly reach home. So she stayed to look first at one race and then at another, and they all proved so amusing that the more she saw the more she wanted to see, though she still said to herself: "I'll go after this one." She was laughing at the struggling efforts of the boys in a sack race, when suddenly, amidst the noise of cheers and shouting which surrounded her, she heard her own name spoken in an urgent entreating voice: "Lilac—Lilac White!"

"Who is it wants me!" she said, starting up and trying to force her way through the crowd. "I'm here; what is it?" The people stood back to let her pass.

"It's Mrs Leigh wants you," said a woman. "She's standing back yonder."

It was strange to see Mrs Leigh's beaming face look so grave and troubled, and it gave Lilac a sense of fear when she reached her.

"Is Mother here, ma'am?" was her first question. "Does she want me, please?"

Mrs Leigh did not answer quite at once, then she said very seriously:

"Your mother is at home, Lilac. You must go with me at once. She is ill."

Self-reproach darted through Lilac's heart. Why had she put off going home? But she must do the best she could now, and she said at once:

"Hadn't I best send someone for the doctor first, ma'am?"

"He is there," answered Mrs Leigh. "He was sent for some time ago; Daniel Wishing went."

The next thing was to get back to Mother as quickly as possible, and Lilac turned without hesitation to the way she had meant to take— straight down the side of the hill. But Mrs Leigh stopped aghast.

"You're not going down there, surely?" she said.

"It's as nigh again as going round, ma'am," said Lilac eagerly; "and it's not to say difficult if you do it sideways."

Mrs Leigh still hesitated. It was very steep; the smooth turf was slippery. There was not even a shrub or anything to cling to, and a slip would certainly end in an awkward tumble. At another time she would have turned from it with horror, but she looked at Lilac's upturned anxious face and was touched with pity.

"After all," she said, grasping her umbrella courageously, "if you can help me a little, perhaps it won't be so bad as it looks."

So they started, hand in hand, Lilac a little in front carefully leading the way; but she was soon sorry that they had not gone round by the road. This was a short distance for herself, but it proved a long one now that she had Mrs Leigh with her. A slip, a stop, a slide, another stop—it was a very slow progress indeed. As they went jerking along the flowers fell off Lilac's dress one by one and left a white track behind her. She had taken off her crown and held it in her hand; its blossoms were drooping already, and its leaves folded up and limp. How short a time it was since they had been fresh and fair, and she had marched up the hill so bravely, full of delight. Now, poor little discrowned Queen, she was leaving her kingdom of mirth and laughter behind her with every step, and coming nearer to the shadowy valley where sadness waited. After many a sigh and gasp Mrs Leigh and her guide reached the bottom in safety. They were on comparatively level ground now, with gently sloping fields in front of them and the sharp shoulder of the hill rising at their back. There, within a stone's throw stood the Wishings' cottage, and a little farther on Lilac's own home. How quiet, how very still it all looked! Now and then there floated in the calm air a shout or a sudden burst of laughter from the distant merry-makers, but here, below, it was all utterly silent. The two little white cottages had no light in their windows, no smoke from their chimneys, no sign of life anywhere.

"Mother's let the fire out," said Lilac.

Mrs Leigh came to a sudden standstill. "Lilac," she said, "my poor child—"

Lilac looked up frightened and bewildered. Mrs Leigh's eyes were full of tears, and she could hardly speak. She took Lilac's hand in hers and held it tightly. "My poor child," she repeated.

"Oh, please, ma'am," cried Lilac, "let's be quick and go to Mother. What ails her?"

"Nothing ails her," said Mrs Leigh solemnly; "nothing will ever ail her any more. You must be brave for her sake, and remember that she loves you still; but you will not hear her speak again on earth."

————————————————————————————————————

The revels on the hill broke up sooner than usual that night, and those who had to pass the cottage on their way home trod softly and hushed their children's laughter. For ill news travels fast, and before nightfall there was no one who did not know that the Widow White was dead.

And thus Lilac's May-Day reign held in its short space the greatest happiness and the greatest sorrow of her life. Joy and smiles and freshly-blooming flowers in the morning; sadness and tears and a withered crown at night.



CHAPTER SIX.

ALONE.

"The spirit of a man will sustain his infirmity, but a wounded spirit who can bear?"—Proverbs.

A few days after this Lilac sat on her little stool in her accustomed corner, listening in a dreamy way to the muffled voices of Mrs Pinhorn and Mrs Wishing. They spoke low, not because they did not wish her to hear, but because, having just come from her mother's funeral, they felt it befitted the occasion. As they talked they stitched busily at some "black" which they were helping her to make, only pausing now and then to glance round at her as though she were some strange animal, shake their heads, and sigh heavily. Lilac had not cried much since her mother's death, and was supposed by the neighbours to be taking it wonderful easy-like. For the twentieth time Mrs Wishing was entering slowly and fully into every detail connected with it—of all the doctor had said of its having been caused by heart disease, of all she had said herself, of all Mr Leigh had said; and if she paused a moment Mrs Pinhorn at once asked another question. For it was Mrs Wishing, who, running in as usual to borrow something, had found Mrs White on May morning sitting peacefully in her chair, quite dead.

"And it do strike so mournful," she repeated, "to think of the child junketing up on the hill, and May Queen an' all, an' that poor soul an alone."

"It's a thing one doesn't rightly understand, that is," said Mrs Pinhorn, "why both Lilac's parents should have been took so sudden." She gave a sharp glance round the room—"I suppose," she added, "the Greenways'll have the sticks. There's a goodish few, and well kep'. Mary White was always one for storing her things."

"I never heard of no other kin," said Mrs Wishing.

"Lilac's lucky to get a home like Orchards Farm. But there! Some is born lucky."

The conversation continued in the same strain until Mrs Wishing discovered that she must go home and get Dan'l's supper ready.

"An' it's time I was starting too," added Mrs Pinhorn. "I've got a goodish bit to walk."

They both looked hesitatingly at Lilac.

"You'll come alonger me and sleep, won't you, dearie?" said Mrs Wishing coaxingly. "It's lonesome for you here."

But Lilac shook her head. "I'd rather bide here, thank you," was all she said; and after trying many forms of persuasion the two women left her unwillingly and took their way.

Lilac stood at the open door and watched them out of sight, but she was not thinking of them at all, though she still seemed to hear Mrs Wishing's words: "It's lonesome for you here." Her head felt strange and dizzy, almost as though she had been stunned, and it was stranger still to find that she could not cry although Mother was dead. She knew it very well, everyone had talked of it to her. Mr Leigh had spoken very kind, and Mrs Leigh had given her a black frock, and all the neighbours at the church that morning had groaned and cried and pitied her; but Lilac herself had hardly shed a tear, though she felt it was expected of her, and saw that people were surprised to see her so quiet. She tried every now and then to get it into her head, and to understand it, but she could not. It seemed to be someone else that folks spoke of, and not Mother. As she stood by the open door, each thing her eye rested on seemed to have something to do with her and to promise her return. There was the hill she had toiled up so often: surely she would come again with a tired footstep, but always a smile for Lilac. There was the little garden and the sweet-peas she had sown, just showing green above the earth: would she never see them bloom? There on the window sill were her knitting-pins and a half-finished stocking: was it possible that Lilac would never hear them click again in her busy fingers? There, most familiar object of all, was the clothes line. Lilac could almost fancy she saw her mother's straight active figure, as she had done scores of times, stretching up her arms to fasten the clothes with wooden pegs, her skirt tucked up, her arms bare, her sunbonnet tilted over her eyes. No—it was quite impossible to feel that she would really never come back; it seemed much more likely that by and by she would walk in at the door and sit down by the window in her high-backed Windsor chair, and take up the unfinished knitting. As Lilac was thinking thus, a figure did really appear at the top of the hill, a short square figure with a gaily trimmed hat on its head—her cousin Agnetta.

For the first time in all her life Agnetta was feeling not superior to Lilac as usual, but shy of her. She did not know what to say to her nor even whether she should be welcome, for she was conscious of having been very ill-tempered lately. Now that Lilac was in trouble, cast down from her high position as Queen, she no longer felt angry with her, and would even have liked to make herself pleasant—if she could. As she came near, however, and stood staring at her cousin, she felt that somehow there was a great difference in her, something which she could not understand. There was a look in Lilac's small white face which made it impossible to speak to her in the old patronising tone; it was as though she had been somewhere and seen something to which Agnetta was a stranger, and which could never be explained to her. It made her uncomfortable, and almost afraid to say anything; and yet, she remembered, Lilac was very low down in the world now—there was less reason than ever to stand in awe of her. She was only poor little Lilac White, with nothing in the world she could call her own, an orphan, and dependent for a home on Agnetta's father. So after these reflections she took courage and spoke: "Mamma said I was to tell you that she'll be up to-morrow morning to look at the furniture, and you must be ready in the afternoon to come down alonger Ben when he brings the cart."

Lilac nodded, and the two girls stood silently on the doorstep for a moment; then Agnetta spoke again:

"I s'pose you're glad you're coming to live at the farm, ain't ye?"

"No," answered Lilac, "I don't know as I be. I'd rather bide here."

Agnetta had recovered her courage with her voice. She stepped uninvited past Lilac into the room and cast a curious look round.

"Lor'!" she said, "don't it look mournful! I should think you'd be glad to get away."

Lilac did not answer.

"What's this?" asked Agnetta, pouncing on the needlework which the two women had left on the table.

"It's a frock for me," said Lilac. "Mrs Leigh give it to me."

Agnetta held the skirt out at arm's length and looked at it critically.

"Well!" she exclaimed with some scorn in her voice, "I should a thought you'd a had it made different now."

"Different?" said Lilac enquiringly.

"Why, there's no reason you shouldn't have it cut more stylish, is there, now there's no one to mind?"

No one to mind! Lilac looked at her cousin with dazed eyes for a moment, as if she hardly understood—then she took the stuff out of her hand.

"I'll never have 'em made different," she cried with a sudden flash in her eyes; "I never, never will." And then to Agnetta's great surprise she suddenly burst into tears.

Agnetta stood staring at her, puzzled. She was sorry, only what had made Lilac cry just now when she had been quite calm hitherto?

"Don't take on so," she ventured to say presently; "and you'll spoil your black. It'll stain dreadful."

But Lilac took no more notice than if she had not been there, and soon, feeling that she could do nothing, Agnetta left her and took her way home. She had accomplished something by her visit, though she did not know it, for she had made Lilac feel now that it really was true. Mother would not come back. She was alone in the world. There was no one, as Agnetta had said, "to mind."

She began to understand it now, and the clearer it was the harder it was to bear. So she bowed her head on the table, amongst the black stuff in spite of Agnetta's caution, and cried on. And presently another thing, which she had not realised till now, stood out plainly before her. She was to go away to-morrow and live at Orchards Farm. Orchards Farm, which she had always fancied the most beautiful place in the world, and beside which her own home had seemed poor and small! Now all that had changed, and the more she thought of it the more she felt that she did not want to leave the cottage. It had suddenly become dear and precious; for all the things in it, even the meanest and smallest, seemed full of her mother's voice and presence. Orchards Farm was a strange country now, with nothing in it that her mother had loved or that loved her, and to go there would be like going still farther from her. Raising her eyes she looked round at the familiar room, at her mother's chair, at her own little stool, at the plants in the window. They all seemed to say: "Don't go, Lilac. It is better to stay here." Must she go? Then suddenly she caught sight of the lilac crown lying dusty and withered in a corner. It reminded her of a friend. "I'll ask Uncle Joshua," she said to herself; "I'll go early to-morrow morning and ask him. He'll know."

Joshua had a very decided opinion on the question placed before him next day: Could Lilac live alone at the cottage and take in the washing as her mother used to do?

"I can reach the line quite easy if I stand on a stool," she said anxiously; "and Mrs Wishing, she'd help me wring."

"Bless you, my maid," he said, "you're not old enough to make a living, or strong enough, or wise enough yet. The proper place for you is your Uncle Greenways' house, till such time as you come to be older."

"Mother, she always said, 'Don't be beholden to no one. Stand on your own feet.' That's what she said ever so often," faltered Lilac.

The cobbler smiled as he looked at the slight little figure. "Well, you must wait a bit. If Mother could speak to you now, she'd say as I do. And you won't be no farther from her at the farm; wherever and whenever you think of her and mind what she said, and how she liked you to act, that's her voice talking to you still. You listen and do as she bids, and that'll make her happier and you too."

Joshua set to work again with feverish haste as he finished. He did not like parting with Lilac, and it was difficult to say goodbye. She lingered, looking wistfully at him.

"You'll come and see me down yonder, won't you, Uncle Joshua?"

"Why, surely, surely," replied Joshua hastily; "and you'll come and see me. It ain't so far after all. Bless me!" he added with a testy glance at the dusty pane in front of him, "what ails the window this morning? It don't give no light whatever."

In a moment Lilac had fetched a duster and rubbed the little window bright and clear. It was a small office she had often performed for the cobbler.

"It wasn't, not to say very dirty," she said; "but you'll have to do it yourself next time, Uncle Joshua."

When she got back to the cottage, she felt a little comforted by the cobbler's words, although he had not fallen in with her plan. What could she do at once, she wondered, that would please her mother? She looked round the room. It had a forlorn appearance. The doorstep, trodden by so many feet lately, was muddy, there was dust on the furniture, and the floor had not been swept for days. Mother certainly would not like that, and Lilac felt she could not leave it so another minute. With new energy she seized broom, brushes, and pail and went to work, going carefully into all the corners, and doing everything just as she had been taught. Very soon it all looked like itself again, bright and orderly, and with a sigh of satisfaction she went upstairs to put herself "straight" before her aunt came.

When there another idea struck her, for the moment she looked at the glass she remembered how Mother had hated the fringe. Surely she could brush it back now that her hair had grown longer. No, brush as hard as she would it fell obstinately over her forehead again. But Lilac was not to be conquered. She scraped it back once more, and tied a piece of ribbon firmly round her head; then she nodded triumphantly at herself in the glass. It was ugly, but anyhow it was neat.

She had just finished this arrangement when a noise in the room below warned her of Mrs Greenways' approach, and running downstairs she found her seated breathless in the high-backed chair. One foot was stretched out appealingly in front of her, and she was so fatigued that at first she could only nod speechlessly at Lilac.

"I'm fairly spent," she said at last, "with that terr'ble hill. I can't wonder myself that your poor mother was taken so sudden with her heart, though she was always a spare figure."

Lilac said nothing; the old feeling came back to her that it was someone else and not Mother who was spoken of.

Mrs Greenways looked thoughtfully round the room; her eye rested on each piece of furniture in turn. "They're good solid things, and well kept," she said. "I will say for Mary White as she knew how to keep her things. We can do with a good many of 'em at the farm," she went on after a pause; "but I don't want to be cluttered up with furniture, and the rest we must sell as it stands."

Lilac's heart sank. She could not bear to think of any of Mother's things being sold, but she was too much in awe of her aunt to say anything.

"So I've come up this morning," pursued Mrs Greenways, producing an old envelope and a stumpy pencil; "just to jot down what I want to keep. And when I've done here, and fetched my breath a little, I'll go upstairs and have a look round."

Mrs Greenways made her list, and then with a businesslike air tied pieces of tape on all the things she had chosen. Lilac saw with dismay that her own little stool and the high-backed chair were left out. It was almost like leaving two old friends behind.

"Have you packed your clothes?" asked Mrs Greenways.

"No, Aunt, not yet," said Lilac.

"Well, I shall have to send Ben up with the cart this afternoon for your box, so you may as well come alonger him. And mind this, Lilac. Don't you go bringin' any litter and rubbish with you. Jest your clothes and no more, and your Bible and Prayer Book. And now I'll go upstairs."

Mrs Greenways went upstairs, followed meekly by Lilac. She watched passively while her aunt punched all the mattresses, placed a searching finger beneath every sheet and blanket, sat down in the chairs, and finally examined every article of Mrs White's wardrobe. "'Tain't any of it much good to me," she said, holding up a cotton gown to the light. "They're all cut so antiquated, and she was never anything of a figure. You may as well keep 'em, Lilac, and they'll come in for you later."

It made Lilac's heart ache sorely to see her mother's clothes in Mrs Greenways' hands turned about and talked over. There was one gown in particular, with a blue spot. Mrs White had worn it on that last May morning when she had stood at the gate, and it seemed almost a part of her. When her aunt dropped it carelessly on the ground after her last remark, Lilac picked it up and held it closely to her.

"And her Sunday bonnet now," continued Mrs Greenways discontentedly. "All the ribbons is fresh and it's a good straw, but I don't suppose I shall look anything but a scarecrow in it."

She perched it on her head as she spoke, and turned about before the glass.

"'Tain't so bad," she murmured, with a glance at Lilac for approval. There was no answer; for to her great surprise Mrs Greenways found that her niece had hidden her face in the blue cotton gown she held to her breast, and was sobbing quietly.

Mrs Greenways was a kind-hearted woman in spite of her coarse nature. She could not exactly see what had made Lilac cry just now, but she went up to her and spoke soothingly.

"There, there," she said, "it's natural to take on, but you'll be better soon, when you get down to the farm alonger Agnetta. You must think of all you've got to be thankful for. And now I should relish a cup o' tea, for I started away early; so we'll go down and you'll get it for me, I dessay. I brought a little in my pocket in case you should be out of it. I shouldn't wonder if Bella was able to give this a bit of style,"—taking off the bonnet. "She's wonderful clever with her fingers."

Mrs Greenways drank her tea, made Lilac take some and eat some bread and butter, which she wished to refuse but dared not.

"Now you feel better, don't you?" she said good-naturedly. "And before I start off home, Lilac, I've got a word to say, and that is that I hope you're proper and thankful for all your uncle's going to do for you."

"Yes, Aunt," said Lilac.

"If it wasn't for him, you know, there'd only be the house for you to go to. Just think o' that! What a disgrace it 'ud be! It's a great expense to have an extry mouth to feed and a growing girl to clothe in these bad times, but we must put up with it."

"I can work, Aunt," said Lilac. "I can do lots of things."

"Well, I hope you'll do what you can," replied Mrs Greenways. "Because, as you haven't a penny of your own, you ought to do summat in return for your uncle's charity. That's only fair and right, isn't it?"

Her mother's words came into Lilac's mind: "Don't be beholden to no one."

"I don't mind work, Aunt," she repeated more boldly. "I'd rather work. Mother, she always taught me to."

"Well, that's a good thing," said Mrs Greenways. "Because, now you're left so desolate, you've got nothing to look to but your own hands and feet. But as to being any help—you're small and young, you see, and you can't be anything but a burden to us for years to come."

A burden! That was a new idea to Lilac.

"And so," finished Mrs Greenways, rising, "I hope as how you'll be a good gal, and grateful, and always remember that if it wasn't for us you'd be on the parish, instead of at Orchards Farm."

She made her way out of the door, and stopped at the garden gate to call back over her shoulder:

"Mind and bring no rubbish along with you. Nothing but clothes."

Lilac's tears dropped fast into the painted deal box as she packed her small stock of clothes. But she felt that she must not wait to cry; she must be ready by the time Ben came, and her aunt's visit had been so long that it was already late. When she had finished she went downstairs to take a last look round. There stood all the well-known pieces of furniture, dumb, yet full of speech; they had seen and heard so much that was dear to her, that it seemed cruel to leave them to strangers. Above all she looked wistfully at a small twisted cactus in a pot standing on the window ledge. Mrs White had been fond of it, and had given it much care and attention. Might she venture to take it with her? How pleased Mother had been, she remembered, when the cactus had once rewarded her by producing two bright-red blossoms. That was long ago, and it had never done anything so brilliant again. Content with its one effort it had since remained unadorned, yet as it stood there, with its fat green leaves and little bunches of prickles, it had the air of saying to itself, "I have done it once, and if I liked I could do it a second time." Even now as she bent tenderly over it Lilac thought she could make out the faint beginning of a bud.

"I do wish I could take it," she said to herself. "If it was only in bloom maybe they'd like it."

But the cactus was very far from blooming, and perhaps had no intention of doing so; in its present condition it would certainly be considered "rubbish" at Orchards Farm.

Lilac turned from it with a sigh, and glancing through the window was startled to see that the cart with Ben sitting in it was already at the gate. Ben looked as though he might have been waiting there for some hours, and was content to wait for any length of time. She ran out in alarm.

"Oh, Ben!" she cried, "I never heard you. Have you been here long?"

"Not I," said Ben; "on'y just come. Missus she give orders as how I was to fetch down some cheers alonger you, so as to lighten the next load a bit."

By the time he had slowly stacked the chairs together, and disposed them round Lilac's box in the cart, which cost him much painful thought, there was not much room left.

"Now then, missie," he said at length, "that's the lot, ain't it?"

"Where am I to sit, Ben?" asked Lilac doubtfully. Ben took off his hat to scratch his head. He had a perfectly round, foolish face, with short dust-coloured whiskers.

"That's so," he said. "I clean forgot you was to go too."

A corner was at last found amongst the chairs, and Ben having hoisted himself on to the shaft they started slowly on their way. Lilac kept her eyes fixed on the cottage until a turn of the road hid it from her sight. It was just there she had turned to look at Mother on May Day. What a long, long time ago, and what a different Lilac she felt now! Grave and old, with all manner of cares and troubles waiting for her, and no one to mind if she were glad or sorry. No one to want her much or to be pleased at her coming. A burden instead of a blessing. She clung to the hope that Agnetta at least would not think her so, but would welcome her to her new home and be kind to her; but she was the only one of whom she thought without shrinking. Her aunt and uncle, Bella and Peter, above all the last, were people to be afraid of.