Mab kissed the fingers which Lady William held out, smiling. ‘After all it is clean dirt, nice mould carefully made, and with everything nice in it both for the colour and the health. Mother, your hands are a little like the auriculas, velvety and soft.’ ‘And brown, and purple,’ said Lady William, laughing. Who is it that says that if we would not cry we must laugh? Heaven knows how true it is. ‘It must have been Patty that did it,’ said Mab. ‘That child will never learn to take care. And, oh! the little Dresden shoe is broken that I got off the Christmas tree, and the silver things all scattered. I wish Patty might get a whipping; it is the only thing that would make her take care.’ ‘Whip me, then, Mab, for it was I. I was vexed and angry----’ ‘You! angry, mother?’ ‘It is not a thing that never happens, Mab.’ ‘No, said Mab judicially; ‘it is not a thing that never happens: but it only happens when you are put out. And I should like to know what had put you out.’ ‘Nothing,’ said Lady William, with a smile. ‘Oh! mother; you may say that to other people--but to me! Of course, I shall find out.’ ‘It was something your uncle James said to me, Mab.’ ‘Oh!’ said Mab, satisfied; ‘I am not surprised if he was in it. He does say such strange things. But he means well enough. Come out, then, mother, for a walk. That always does you more good than anything.’ ‘It is too early; it is not noon yet. It is dissipated going away from one’s work at this time of the day.’ But the conclusion was that the two ladies did go out, and went to the river-side, where Lady William sat down on a bench by the landing-place, while Mab made certain investigations in respect to the boats. It was a fine morning, but not over bright--one of those gray days in the beginning of May, when Nature seems to veil herself capriciously by way of making the after-glory more glorious. The day was gray, with breaks of quiet light, not bright enough to be called sunshine, through the clouds, and all the new foliage tempered and softened in its fresh greenness of spring by the neutral tints that enveloped everything. The river flowed quietly upon its way, stopping for nothing, indifferent whether overhead there was sunshine or clouds, working away at the tall growing reeds on the edge, and sweeping round them, pushing them back out of its way, sapping the camp-shedding on the other side, hollowing out the bank that intruded into the current. The soft, strong flowing carries one’s thoughts with it, whatever they may be, and Lady William gradually gave way to that silent coercion, and let her more painful reflections escape her, and the thoughts she could not get rid of swell round and round her mind like the circles of the stream. The scenery was not remarkable at that point. From the river, indeed, the pretty little landing-place, with its bit of green bank, its marshalled boats, and the old red-and-white houses behind, made a delightful touch of life and