The room knew neither carpet, curtain, nor blind. The sun, the wind, and not seldom the rain and snow were free of it. A small collapsible camp-bed, a copper basin and jug, an old chest, a corner cupboard--these constituted the furniture. The walls were whitewashed. Three of them knew no pictures. On one was her hunting-crop, a cutting-whip, and a pair of spurs; beneath them a boot-jack and three pairs of soft riding-boots in various stages of wear. In the corner stood a tandem-whip. Above the mantelpiece was one of the plates in which Cannibal had run the National, framing a photograph of the ugliest horse that ever won at Aintree--and the biggest, to judge from the size of the plate. Beneath it was a picture of the Good Shepherd and the Lost Sheep, and a church almanac. On the mantelpiece were the photographs of her mother, her father, Monkey Brand in the Putnam colours, and the Passion Play at Oberammergau; while pinned above the clock was the one poem, other than certain hymns and psalms, that Boy knew by heart. It was called _Two on the Downs_, and had been written by Mr. Haggard, when in the first vigour of youth he had come to take up his ministry in Cuckmere thirty years since: Two on the Downs _Climb ho! So we go Up the hill to the sky, Through the lane where the apple-blossoms blow And the lovers pass us by. Let them laugh at you and me, Let them if they dare! They're almost as bad maybe-- What do we care? Halt ho! On the brow!-- O, the world is wide! And the wind and the waters blow and flow In the sun on every side. By the dew-pond windy-dark, Take a gusty breath; The gorse in glory, The sunshine hoary Upon the sea beneath._ _Swing ho! Bowing go, Breathless with laughter and song, The wind in her wilful hair a-blow, Swinging along, along. She and I, girl and boy, Merrily arm in arm, The lark above us, And God to love us, And keep our hearts from harm. Sing ho! So we go, Over Downs that are surging green, Under the sky and the seas that lie Silvery-strewn between_. One brilliant morning in early June, some two months after she had brought the gypsy's mare back to Putnam's on the evening of the Polefax Meeting, Boy rose early and stood humming the lines as she dressed, to a simple little tune she had composed for them.