“Judy—you didn’t take my stockings for your own by any chance?” The lady in the deerstalker gave way to delighted horror. “Sssh, Mavourneen!” she cried—she was one of that large class of amiable women who are more Irish than they need be—“there’s a Boy here!” § 3 There was indeed an almost obsequiously industrious and obliging Boy. An hour later he was no longer a Boy but _the_ Boy, and three friendly women were regarding him with a merited approval. He had done the frying, renewed a waning fire with remarkable skill and dispatch, reboiled a neglected kettle in the shortest possible time, laid almost without direction a simple meal, very exactly set out campstools and cleaned the frying pan marvellously. Hardly had they taken their portions of that appetizing savouriness, than he had whipped off with that implement, gone behind the caravan, busied himself there, and returned with the pan—glittering bright. Himself if possible brighter. One cheek indeed shone with an animated glow. “But wasn’t there some of the bacon and stuff left?” asked the lady in the deerstalker. “I didn’t think it was wanted, Miss,” said Bealby. “So I cleared it up.” He met understanding in her eye. He questioned her expression. “Mayn’t I wash up for you, miss?” he asked to relieve the tension. He washed up, swiftly and cleanly. He had never been able to wash up to Mr. Mergleson’s satisfaction before, but now he did everything Mr. Mergleson had ever told him. He asked where to put the things away and he put them away. Then he asked politely if there was anything else he could do for them. Questioned, he said he liked doing things. “You haven’t,” said the lady in the deerstalker, “a taste for cleaning boots?” Bealby declared he had. “Surely,” said a voice that Bealby adored, “’tis an angel from heaven.” He had a taste for cleaning boots! This was an extraordinary thing for Bealby to say. But a great change had come to him in the last half-hour. He was violently anxious to do things, any sort of things, servile things, for a particular person. He was in love. The owner of the beautiful voice had come out of the caravan, she had stood for a moment in the doorway before descending the steps to the ground and the soul of Bealby had bowed down before her in instant submission. Never had he seen anything so lovely. Her straight slender body was sheathed in blue; fair hair, a little tinged with red, poured gloriously back from her broad forehead, and she had the sweetest eyes in the world. One hand lifted her dress from her feet; the other rested on the lintel of the caravan door. She looked at him and smiled. So for two years she had looked and smiled across the footlights to the Bealby in mankind. She had smiled now on her entrance out of habit. She took the effect upon Bealby as a foregone conclusion. Then she had looked to make sure that everything was ready before she descended. “How good it smells, Judy!” she had said.