She had passed the last house in the village when, catching sight of a bank by the roadside starred over with primroses, she lingered to gather them. The day was fresh and sunny, the sky intensely blue, the early apple blossom in the orchards exquisite in its colouring; for the sheer joy of being alive in such a lovely world she could not help singing softly to herself. The words of Autolycus’ song rose to her lips, while a worse deceiver than that mendacious thief and pedlar quietly pursued her. “When daffodils begin to peer, With heigh! the doxy over the dale, Why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year, For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale.” She started a little when Norton’s mellow tones fell on her ear. “A beautiful song for a beautiful spring day, and chanted by a radiant vision of spring!” he exclaimed, feasting his eyes on her loveliness. She laughed as she curtseyed in response to his profound bow. “Sir, you are of a very different opinion to Peter Waghorn, the wood-carver in the tiled house yonder. He frowned on me and my gown, and thought doubtless that grey and pink should be left for the skies at dawn, not worn by a worm of earth, as he deems me. I do detest that talk of earthworms.” “You should never wear any colours save those of the sky,” said Norton, gazing into the comely face and dark grey eyes. “May you never again need to wear mourning robes!” “In truth, when I last donned them,” she said, strolling on towards the farm, “I thought I should never be happy again. Yet to-day I am happy once more--I can’t help it--the world is so beautiful.” “You who make others happy should be always happy yourself,” he said. “I don’t make others happy,” she said, drooping her head a little as a memory of her treatment of Gabriel returned unbidden. “I make the people who care for me unhappy.” “Let me be the exception, then,” he said, boldly. “I have had sorrow enough in my life; don’t give me more.” She glanced at him doubtfully, then turned aside to gather some more primroses. “Have you seen the Vicar?” she inquired. “No, but I have a matter to talk over with him,” said Norton, “and, with your permission, will return to the Vicarage with you and carry your egg-basket.” “Eggs are fragile things,” she said, laughingly. “I am not sure that I can trust you.” “I assure you my hand is as steady a one as you will find, and well practised at tilting at the bucket.” “But mine is more practised at carrying eggs,” she said, gaily. “Ah, but my greatest pleasure is to serve you,” said Norton, persuasively, “and you promised never to add to my sorrow.” “Indeed, I never made so rash a promise,” she protested. “Still, if carrying the egg basket will satisfy you, I will yield. Have you brought us a newsbook this morning?” “No, only a legal document just issued by Prince Rupert. I saw him not long since at Hereford.”