"Thistledown for thoughts," said May Fisher, laughing, as she tried to seize the glossy balls floating by on the idle air of the lane. "Thoughts are of little value, then," said Felix St Bees. "Except to the goldfinches," said Margaret; "see how busy they are." It was a lovely afternoon: white fleecy clouds lingered in the upper atmosphere, so gauze-like in texture as scarcely to diminish the sun's rays when they passed over. The golden mist of ripe September filled the hollows and hung over the distant ridges, softening with haze the outlines of the hills. The fierce stress of midsummer heat was gone, leaving instead a luxurious warmth that lured them into the fields. Margaret had succeeded in persuading old Andrew Fisher to let May return to Greene Ferne. Rude as he was, Margaret's beauty stirred the expiring spirit of gallantry, and he yielded. Although he would not let May go back at once in her company, he fixed a day for her return. Margaret explained to him that St Bees did not need his money, having plenty; and the old man--prompted too by avarice--sent a gruff kind of apology, and asked Felix to call again. Felix, however, had had his dignity upset by the blackthorn cudgel hurled at his head, and naturally waited awhile before repeating his visit. Geoffrey still stayed at Thorpe Hall, for the shooting now, and Valentine at Hollyock Cottage. They had all started that afternoon to go a-nutting in Thorpe Wood. The wood was approached by a winding thick-hedged lane. As they slowly advanced a bevy of goldfinches went before them, rising from the thistles, for they love the seeds in the down, with a "fink" of remonstrance, settling again to start up once more, and finally, out of patience at the interruption, taking flight to the tall ash-trees, to wait till the intruders had passed on. "We must have some sticks with crooks to pull the boughs down," said May, "or we shall not reach half the nuts." So the gentlemen took out their pocket-knives, and searched for suitable sticks. Felix cut one of hazel, twice as long as himself; Valentine another of ash; Geoffrey carelessly slashed off the first willow-bough he came to, and trimmed it. "Yours will not do," said Margaret to him. "The willow is too weak--it will split." "Will mine answer?" asked Valentine, showing a stout piece of ash. "Yes, that is tougher. Why don't you get an ash, Geoffrey?" "I shall trust in my first choice," said Geoffrey, just a trifle annoyed even by so slight a matter; for when men's minds are strung with love and jealousy the least thing nettles them. "I think it will do," said May, anxious to smooth it over.