Aura bent her head caressingly to the great bunch of gold-rayed Japanese lilies she held. "I am taking them to a dead baby," she said quietly, "the lilies won't be ashamed of it." And with that she turned on her heel superbly, leaving Martha speechless, to watch the blue linen smock cross the lawn and disappear behind the rhododendrons. A glimmer of it showed like a bit of heaven among the birchwood beyond the bridge ere the older woman found her tongue, and going over to where Adam was weeding beetroot confided in him. "You mark my word, Adam Bate," she said solemnly, "Miss H'Aura" (the _h_ was always added on such occasions as a point of ceremony) "'ll marry the wrong man, sure as eggs is eggs." Adam looked up aghast. "The wrong 'un? Why, sakes me, she ain't got never one at all; and sorry be, for 'twud be a right sight to see 'un billin' and cooin' 'mongst the yapple trees, as true lovers shud." Martha's repressed indignation found instant outlet. "Adam Bate," she remarked severely, "you 'em's got a low depraved mind, that's what's the matter with you. Miss H'Aura ain't o' the cuddlin' sort, no, nor me neither, as you know to your cost, or shud do by this time. No! Miss H'Aura, bless her dear heart, has such a outlook as no man can ever reach to it truly; an' when one is a-lookin' down from a 'eight, it's hard to tell on what rung o' the ladder a feller's standing. There's always somethin' in the way o' right seein', either 'is body or 'is head, specially if it has good looks." "Not if 'e be low 'nuff, Martha, woman," replied Adam, stooping closer to his beetroot, some of which seemed to get into his sunburnt ears. "When she be so high as a star, and he be a creepin' wum in the yerth, an' there never cud be no count of bein' ekal----" "Then 'e'd better leave coortin' alone," interrupted Martha uncompromisingly, "seein' 'e cud never clasp her, try 'e ever so hard. But head or heart, you mark my word, when Miss H'Aura's time comes, him as cares least, an' lays least finger to her, is the one for that prize. An' there won't be no billin' and cooin' among your yapple trees, Mr. Bate--so there!" Adam stood looking after her admiringly. "'Twarn't so bad if it hadn't bin for that trick o' blushin'; but there, beet is beet, and what's in the hands comes out in the face. I'll tell her so when I gives it in fur bilin'." With which remark he chuckled, and settled down to his weeding once more. For fifteen years he had made ineffectual attempts to court Martha, and nothing now would have surprised or taken him aback more than the faintest success. On her side, Martha kept up the conflict with external spirit, but with a certain sneaking admiration also for his pertinacity. As she went back to her kitchen she also chuckled. "Blushed like a babby," she murmured, "an' he wrinkled like a bad batch o' bread. I'll tell him that there beetroot's bled when he brings it in."