Mrs. Redmore was a feeble, incapable creature, delicate, without the mental or moral power of rising to an emergency and forming a resolution. She sat weeping and crying out that she was without Roger, and he always managed for her. “But you see, Jane,” argued a neighbour, “as how Roger can’t be here for very good reasons, which us needn’t mention, and so someone must do something, and who else is there but you?” “I wish I was dead,” wailed the poor creature. “Well, now, Jane,” said the neighbour, “don’t ye be so silly. If you was dead, what ’d become o’ the childer?” At this juncture Kate arrived, breathless with running. “It is well.” She stood panting, with her eyes bright with pleasure at the consciousness that she brought relief. “I asked my father, and he says Mrs. Redmore and the little ones may go into his cottage at Roundle Post, and stay there till something is settled.” “That’s brave!” exclaimed the women who were standing round. “Now, let me take the little ones, Jane, and you lead the way, and Matthew Woodman, he’ll help to carry some of your things.” “I have the key,” said Kate; “and the distance is nothing.” “Lawk a mussy!” exclaimed one of the women; “what would us ever a’ done wi’out you, Kitty. The poor creetur is that flummaged and mazed, her don’t seem right in her head, and us couldn’t do nothing with she.” Mrs. Redmore caught Kate’s hand, and kissed it. “We’d all a’ died here, but for you,” she said. “Indeed,” answered Kate, hastily snatching her hand away, “it is my father who has come to your assistance not I. He lends you the house.” “But you axed him for it. Oh, if Roger could do anything for you!” “I assure you my father is the one to be thanked, if anyone is.” “Well, if Roger could do aught for he, it would be the same as to you.” “Come, let us be on the move.” A little procession formed—women carrying the children, or crocks, a couple of men with wheelbarrows, removing some of the heavier goods. Then up came Jan Pooke, and at once offered his assistance, and worked as hard as any. As soon as the poor woman was settled into her new quarters, Jan sidled up to Kate, and, seizing her hand and breathing heavily, said, “Kitty, I want to say something to you.” The girl looked at him inquiringly, waiting for what he had to say. “I mean, Kitty, alone.” “I am Kitty Alone,” observed she, with a smile. “I don’t mean that. I have something I want to say to you.” “What is it?” said she. “You look very odd.” “It’s—it’s—the silver peninks.” “What of them?” It must be premised that the “silver peninks” are the _narcissus poeticus_. “They are in an orchard.” “I know it,” said Kate. “Lovely they are—and yet, somehow, I like the daffodils as well.” “Now, it’s a curious thing,” said Jan, “that the same roots bring up first daffies, and then silver peninks.” “That is not possible,” objected Kate. “But it is so. Come into the orchard, Kitty, and see for yourself.”