A CROFTERS’ COMMISSION. One morning Mary Stanley and her companion had been away on some distant errand, and when on their return they came to the summit of the hill overlooking the bay, Mary paused for a moment to take in the prospect—the wide, grey, wind-swept plain of the sea, the long headlands, and the lonely Heimra Island out in the west. But Käthchen did not cease her discourse—in which she was endeavouring to account for the comparative failure, so far, of her friend’s fine philanthropic schemes. "The truth is, Mamie," said she, "what has disappointed you here has been the prevalence of hard facts—very hard facts—facts as hard as the rocks on which the poor people try to live. You wanted to play the part of Lady Bountiful; and you yourself are just full of enthusiasm, and generous emotion, and ideals of duty and self-sacrifice, and—and—romanticism generally, if I may say so. And for all these qualities you find no exercise, no outlet. I can imagine you in very different circumstances—in London, perhaps, or in some English village: I can imagine your going into a squalid room where there is a poor widow by the bedside of her dying boy; and the Lady Bountiful brings little comforts for the sick child, and words of kindness and consolation for the mother; and the poor woman looks on you as an angel, and would kiss the hem of your gown; and it’s all very pretty and touching. But, you see," continued the practical Käthchen, "how you are baffled and thwarted in this obdurate place; for there isn’t a single case of illness in the whole district—not one—which is no doubt owing to the valuable antiseptic properties of peat-smoke!" "Oh, well," said Mary, cheerfully, as they went on again. "I can put up with being disappointed on that score—and the longer the better. But, Käthchen, when you said there was nothing but hard facts about here—no pretty sentiment and sympathy—you weren’t keeping your eyes open. Look down there at the bridge; what is that if not pretty sentiment?—two lovers talking—why, it is quite a charming picture!—and isn’t there some rustic custom of pledging troth over a running stream?" Her face suddenly grew grave; and Käthchen, also regarding those two figures, was struck by the same surmise. "It is Mr. Ross, Mamie!" she exclaimed, in an undertone—though they were still a long way off.