“Beg pardon, but I’m much obliged. That’s one of the funniest pieces of music that was ever composed. Say, boss, will you step out a minute.” I stepped out. He had risen and was evidently going. “Boss, I used to be one of the second violins in Seidl’s orchestra, but—well,—that’s how. I was go’n’ _by_ here, for I had had som’n’ to eat at the last house, but when I heard ‘Anitra’s Dance,’ gee! it brought back the good old days when I was doing the only thing I ever cared for, fiddling; and I thought I’d ask for some more, and then I didn’t dare until I’d been around to the kitchen and braced up. Thank the young lady for me.” He shuffled out to the road. “You wronged him, Philip,” said Ethel when I returned. “Think of his knowing ‘Peer Gint.’” Cherry wiped her eyes and broke into a chorus from “Iolanthe.” CHAPTER XXI. WE MAKE HAY. SUNDAY it rained until late in the afternoon, but at that time a westerly wind sprang up which rapidly dried things, and enabled us to go out for a sunset walk. “This is a place in which to do nothing but be happy,” said Cherry to Ethel as we stood on top of our favorite rock and looked up the valley for miles and miles, watching belated and feathery clouds fly across it, trying to catch up with the rain clouds that had all day long swept by. “That’s what I felt when I first came up,” said Ethel, “but I’m beginning to feel so strong now that Philip has sent for a lawn tennis set, and James is going to mark a court, and you and I can play against Philip.” “Yes, and while we’re waiting for it to come,” said I, “we’ll have to pitch in and give our next-door neighbour a spell of work at hay-making.” “What’s a spell of work?” asked Cherry. “Why, it’s falling to, and helping your neighbour this week, and next week he falls to, and helps you.” “Oh, how delicious. And do you know how to make hay?” “Anyone can learn how in a single morning. First you cut it, then you toss it, and then you gather it. It’s as easy as lying.” “I’m afraid I’ll never learn it,” said Cherry demurely.