Rosy had formed certain private plans as to the disposal of her Good Friday; there were friends of her mother’s to visit, old playmates of her own to look up--these, being of the same age as herself, would doubtless have some little jaunt in view. And now the whole day was to be spent in cleaning up for Simon Fry. Simon, who was nephew by blood to Aunt Becky, while she was only niece by marriage--there could not be much doubt as to who would prove the favourite. Rosy felt she had been inveigled from her home on false pretences; it was not out of affection that Mrs. Melmouth had sent for her, but simply to secure her help with the housework and to make her wait upon Mr. Simon Fry. Her aunt glanced at her sharply as she flushed and bit her lip, but made no remark; and presently Rosy regained her good humour. For was it not the sweetest of spring evenings, and were not the thrushes singing in the wood just behind the cottage, and were there not primroses in bloom on either side of the path that led to the gate? Rosy could see them through the open door and fancied she could smell them, and the breeze that lifted her curly hair from her brow was refreshing after her stuffy drive and recent labours. She had come from a back street in Sturminster, where the air was not of the same quality, and the surroundings far less inviting. “’Tis nice to live in the country, aunt,” said she with a bright smile. Next morning she rose with the lark, and being strong and capable had got Mr. Simon’s room into excellent order before breakfast. As she made the bed she could not resist giving a vicious thump or two to the pillow. “Set ye up, indeed,” she murmured. “Ye may make your own bed arter this, Mr. Dairy Chap!” If she had hoped that her matutinal labours would leave her free for the remainder of the day she was disappointed. Mrs. Melmouth gave her a pressing invitation to assist her at the wash-tub, having, as she informed her with an engaging smile, expressly saved up the dirty linen for her that week. “To wash on Good Friday!” exclaimed Rosy, aghast. “Dear, to be sure, aunt, ’tis the unluckiest thing you can do.” “Unlucky? Fiddlesticks!” retorted Mrs. Melmouth. “A good day for a good deed--so say I.” Rosy therefore remained immersed in suds during the greater part of that day; and though at first she could have cried with vexation, she soon found herself amused by the old woman’s talk; and with every fresh excursion to the hedge her spirits went up. The air was so fresh, the sunshine so bright, the clean, wet linen smelt quite nice, she thought, here in the country. Then the hedge itself, with its little red leaf-buds gaping here and there so as to show the crumpled-up baby leaves within--it had an attraction of its own; and she could never be tired of looking at the primroses that studded the bank beneath.