"You have not seen Mrs. Villiers for close upon four years. You were an infant then." "I don't forget." "No—I believe that! Jean, I declare, I won't have you so frightfully unsociable. You ought to like people more. My father says there is something nice in everybody, if only one is willing to see it." "Then I suppose I'm not willing," quoth straightforward Jean. "I wish Mr. Kennedy had sent this morning. My father will have to go all the way down to the lower end of the town again. He might just as well have done the business when he was there two hours ago. He is so busy to-day." "I don't call that nice of Mr. Kennedy." "He doesn't think." "Then he ought." "Jean, you are always half pleased to find some little fault in Mr. Kennedy," murmured Mabel. The words had no denial. Jean looked as if she had gained a new idea. CHAPTER II. MUD AND BRAMBLES. "I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, While dear hands are laid on my head, The child is a woman, the book may close ever, For all the lessons are said." "I wait for my story—the birds cannot sing it, Not one as he sits on the tree; The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it, Such as I wish it to be." JEAN INGELOW. Dr. INGRAM'S house was almost outside the town, and thus far the two girls went together. At the garden-gate they stopped; Mabel ran indoors, after a hasty good-bye, and Jean pursued her solitary way. Dutton was a good two miles from Dulveriford. Jean had permission to go to and fro, by the path through meadows and fields; not by the high road. She turned into the meadows directly after quitting the town, and went onward in a quick steadfast fashion, not dallying. This does not mean the absence of enjoyment. Jean had in her nature intense capabilities of enjoyment; and the sights and sounds of country life always thrilled her with a keen delight, which custom could not deaden. Now and again she would pause for a few seconds to listen to the song of some little bird, to study the markings of a butterfly as it zigzagged past, to watch the contented munching of a pretty young cow. There were a good many cows in one field, and a good many horses in the next. Fear in connection with animals was a feeling unknown to Jean. She did not, however, linger long for anything. Jean at sixteen was simply the child of nine expanded. The straight supple form was unchanged, only taller; the slim sunburnt hands were only longer and more capable. The greenish-brown eyes were serious as ever, with their old power of shining under excitement. She was not "plain" now; the delicate straight features would admit of no such description; but neither was she beautiful; and "pretty" was a term which nobody could think of in connection with the severe simplicity of Jean's outlines, dress, and manner. People generally called her "uncommon;" a safe word which might admit of anything.