The old man turned and looked at her. "'Tis Bill I wants," he said peevishly. "Bill who works to the farm. He said he'd be here to cook my taties, and 'tis gone four. I didn't have none for dinner and wants some wi' my tea, and I've a-been and upset the pot a-tryin' to put him on the fire, and the taties are burnt up. Oh, dearie me! I'm a poor lone man who can't do nothink for himself!" Peggy's quick eyes saw the overturned pot. She went forward and picked it up. "I'll peel a few taties in a minute and pop 'em on for you," she said cheerfully. "You sit still, mister. I see the taties. They're on the dresser there. Oh my! What a muck your things are in! Who cleans your room for you?" The old man began to cry. "'Twas my poor Janie did it last. She only died six months ago. And no neighbours be near—only the farm. Bill—he does what he can, but he be a bit clumsy with his fingers; and I be terrible crippled with rheumaticks. Thank 'ee kindly, my dear. You be new to these parts, I reckon." "I live with my missuses at Ivy Cottage," said Peggy, as she deftly peeled the potatoes and dropped them in the pot. "I comes from London, I does; but, oh my! What a sight the country be this arternoon!" "What be the matter with it?" "The matter! Why, the sun be shinin' and lambs be playin' and primroses a-growin'. Look at my bunch! Did you ever see sich flowers? They hangs 'em round a black figure in London—on his birthday, I believe. That's how I knows 'em. Beckyfield his name be. Funny his name bein' a kind o' field; I never thought on that afore. Must have somethin' to do with the primroses. "Oh my! You oughter walk out, mister; 'twould cheer you up. There's a kind of happy, wake-up feel outdoors to-day. And the birds are a-singin' and a-flyin' up miles above yer head. There now, mister; tell me where to get a drop o' water and I'll put the pot on for yer." "'Tis to the pump outside." Peggy found the pump and placed the pot on the fire. "I'll ask my missus to let me come and see you one day," she said, with a confidential little nod. "There's a good bit o' news and talk I could give you about London." "Ah, do 'ee come in agen, me dear. I be a poor lone old man, and no one comes nigh me." "All right, I'll turn up. Good arternoon!" She turned to the door and almost ran into the arms of a tall young man. Shyness was not one of Peggy's characteristics. "I s'pose as how you're Bill," she said, with a queer look up at him. "I've bin doin' what you oughter! Yer poor old father wants some one to look arter him. Why don't yer keep the place clean? 'Tis as bad as London for dirt and mess. You jest giv' it a good lick up afore I comes this way agen!" She marched off, Albert Edward at her heels, and Bill Somers stared after her in stupid amazement. CHAPTER VII A FELLOW-GIRL