Very early next morning Jane-Anne crept out of bed, pulled up her blind, and seized the volume of poetry Mr. Wycherly had lent her. She read till her eyes ached and her head swam; she read without the smallest understanding or enjoyment, but with the greatest care and application, and though there was much about mountains there was nothing that struck the faintest chord of memory in Jane-Anne. Whatever it was that her father had repeated when he used to carry her about, it wasn’t there. And yet she was certain about "the mountains." Yes, it was "the mountains." "I’m afraid he’ll have to look again," she said to herself. She had not the smallest doubt that Mr. Wycherly would help her. It was a very hot May, and as the doctor had said she could not be too much in the fresh air, her aunt, that afternoon, put a little table and chair for her under the apple-tree, gave her some needle-work, and bidding her listen for any bell that might happen to ring, announced her intention of going out to do some household shopping. "Unless anyone calls to see the master it’s unlikely that anyone’ll come at all," said Mrs. Dew, "and the front door bell’s that loud you’ll hear it right enough if so be as you don’t get moonin’. I shan’t be more than a hour." Shortly after Mrs. Dew’s departure Mr. Wycherly came to his window and looked out. There sat Jane-Anne at the little table covered by a heap of white sewing, and he thought what a pleasant picture she made in her stiff buff frock, so maidenly and sweet, so suitably and sensibly employed on this sunny afternoon in the midst of the green old garden, gay with tulips and fragrant wallflowers. Suddenly Jane-Anne stooped down and took off her heavy shoes and there and then flung them one after another to the other side of the lawn. Then she removed her stockings. Mr. Wycherly gazed fascinated. What was the child about? This was soon deplorably evident. Jane-Anne was taking off her dress. Mr. Wycherly felt that he ought to go away from that window, but he didn’t. He stayed where he was and, what’s more, he placed his eyeglasses upon his nose. She gave herself a complicated kind of shake and the buff abomination fell about her feet in stiff expostulating folds. Daintily and deliberately, she stepped out of it as though withdrawing her feet from something dirty and distasteful. She wore a skimpy little blue-and-white striped petticoat of cotton; body and skirt in one piece it reached just to her knees, but was sleeveless, and her long, slender arms were bare. A thrush was singing in the apple-tree and a blackbird warbled loudly in a lilac bush trying to drown the thrush. They sang as though there were no such thing as winter in the world, and neither of them cared a whit for Jane-Anne and her disrobings.