"It was an awfully kiddish place to hide it in," said Martin finishing, and as he looked up Joscelyn laughed again, rubbing her tear-stained cheeks with the back of her hand, and for all the great growing girl that she was looked no more than twelve. So he slid under the swing and stood up behind her and kissed her on the back of the neck where babies are kissed. Then all the milkmaids came back again. PART II To every girl Martin handed her key. "This is your business," said he. And first Joan, and next Joyce, and then Jennifer, and then Jessica, and then Jane, and last of all Joscelyn, put her key into its lock and turned. And not one of the keys would turn. They bit their lips and held their breath, and turned and turned in vain. "This is dreadful," said Martin. "Are you sure the keys are in the right keyholes?" "They all fit," said little Joan. "Let me try," said Martin. And he tried, one after another, and then tried each key singly in each lock, but without result. Jane said, "I expect they've gone rusty," and Jessica said, "That must be it," and Jennifer turned pale and said, "Then Gillian can never get out of the Well-House or we out of the orchard." And Martin sat down in the swing and thought and thought. As he thought he began to swing a little, and then a little more, and suddenly he cried "Push me!" and the six girls came behind him and pushed with all their strength. Up he went with his legs pointed as straight as an arrow, and back he flew and up again. The third time the swing flew clean over the Well-House, and as true as a diving gannet Martin dropped from mid-air into the little court, and stood face to face with Gillian. PART III She was not weeping. She was bathed in blushes and laughter. She held out her hands to him, and Martin took them. She had golden hair of lights and shadows like a wheatfield that fell in two thick plaits over her white gown, and she had gray eyes where smiles met you like an invitation, but you had to learn later that they were really a little guard set between you and her inward tenderness, and that her gayety, like a will-o'-the-wisp, led you into the flowery by-ways of her spirit where fairies played, but not to the heart of it where angels dwelled. Few succeeded in surprising her behind her bright shield, but sometimes when she wasn't thinking it fell aside, and what men saw then took their breath from them, for it was as though they were falling through endless wells of infinite sweetness. And afterwards they could have told you nothing further of her loveliness; when they got as far as her eyes they were drowned. Her features, the curves of her cheeks and lips and chin and delicate nostrils, were as finely-turned as the edge of a wild-rose petal, and her skin had the freshness of dew. The sight of her brought the same sense of delight as the sight of a meadow of cowslips. As sweet and sunny a scent breathed out from her beauty.