“We’ll ’ave a pink frock, this time, won’t we, Dad? ’cos it were such a good job I didn’t get drownded,” she insisted. “You said we wouldn’t ’ave blue again, and I want pink, so I will ’ave it, won’t I?” And she kept on repeating “won’t I?” until he was forced to reply. But he only said: “We ain’t goin’ to buy no frocks to-day.” And as he said it he struck off towards the lower road that skirted the base of the hill. “But I’d rather see the shops, Daddie,” declared she. And as he took no notice, she added fretfully: “’Tain’t the right way to the sweet shop—no ’tain’t.” It was the first time he had ever refused her an innocent wish; his heart tightened as he answered: “We ain’t got no time to buy sweets to-day. We’se got a long way to go. Ye must come along like a good girl, and maybe ye shall ’ave some sweets another time.” “Does ’oo promise?” said she authoritatively. And with the tightening at his heart again, he said: “I promise!” They struck out again on to the sun-scorched marsh-land beyond the town. She was a sunny-souled babe, and she was reconciled, but as the heat began to pour down on them, she began to flag. “Where be we goin’, Daddie?” she would ask. “To the se’side? I ain’t never been to this se’side before. Be it a far beach?” “Yes,” he would answer, “it be a very far beach.” Then, presently: “Ain’t we goin’ to ’ave no dinner, Dad? I’d rather go ’ome. I be tired.” “Soon,” he would reply; but the complaints multiplied. “I don’t want to go no further,” was the next. “Daddy carry Daisy on his back!” At first he had tried to be deaf to this last request; he had a vague feeling that he _dared_ not take her in his arms. But the old habit of the past five years was upon him still. He could not endure that the little footsteps should lag painfully, and that the little voice that had been so dear to him should plead in vain. “Daddie, Daddie,” it cried, “don’t ye ’ear?” He heard, he heard well enough! A sob rose in his throat, and he turned away that the child might not see tears on his old cheeks. But he stooped down and lifted her on to his back. And then he could hear her laugh for contentment, and could feel her nestle her head down against his, as she slowly dropped to sleep. A farmer, driving across that distant marsh-land, met them thus. Months afterwards he told it in the village on the hill. Two months and more had passed by: where the plain had been at its greenest against a sea—blue beneath the hot sun and east winds of spring—it was golden now with the gold of the harvesting, and brown with the seeds of many grasses that nodded heavy heads in the western breezes. The cottage on the cliff was sad and quiet. For the best part of a week after that memorable evening when little Daisy had fallen into the river—it had remained absolutely silent: no smoke had ascended heavenward from its old brick chimney, no voice, either sober or merry, had been heard from out its latticed windows or its orchard-garden.