So, idly and laughingly, an hour of the summer afternoon passes; and then an accident mars its harmony. John Willie and Percy, feeling the pangs of thirst, had drunk their milk and had then set up the bottle as a mark to throw stones at; and Ynys, walking down to the sea-marge, has set her foot upon a piece of the broken glass. Unconcernedly she bathes the cut in the salt water. But as the laughing group breaks up, and her mother calls her again, the blood wells out once more, dabbling with a dark stain those light kidney-shaped prints in the sand. Mrs. Garden and Mrs. Briggs see the child's plight simultaneously. It is a cruel gash, and the two ladies utter loud cries. "Nay, nay, whativver in the world!" cries Mrs. Briggs, all of her that is not pure mother suddenly becoming pure Hunslet. "Nay, nay! Come here, doy!----" She and Mrs. Garden kneel down before the gipsy child, and a dozen others gather round. Cries of sympathy break out. "T' poor bairn!----" "What a mess!" "How did she do it?" "John Willie, quick, run and get the kettle from the picnic-basket----" "Indeed, lady dear, it iss noth-thing----" "Quick, Ray, give me your handkercher too----" Ynys' foot is bathed in fresh water from the picnic-kettle, and bound up with Mrs. Briggs's tiny lace handkerchief, with Raymond's large one over it to secure it. The blood has already come through before the tying is finished. And you forget the false accents and the elaborate pretences of these "summer things" of Llanyglo's little preliminary piece, and remember only the better things that lie beneath them. They flatter Ynys, and encourage her with admiring words. "She's a very brave little girl, anyway!" "What did you say her name was?" "Ynys." "Well done, Ynys! Soon be well----" "John Willie, I've told you about throwing stones at bottles before--get you home till I come----" "And you too, Percy Briggs; and you dare to stir out till I tell you!" "Don't cry, little girl----" Ynys has no thought whatever of crying. She makes no more motion than a pine makes when it bleeds its gouts of resin in the spring. But they continue to comfort her. "She'll never be able to walk like that!" "Better fetch Gilbert Smythe." "June, you run----" "Here's half a crown for you, Ynys, for being a brave little girl." Then Minetta, who has been conferring with Belle, speaks.--"All right, mother, she's to come home with us; I'm going to paint her." "There, now, Ynys, you're going to be painted! Won't that be fun!" "And if she ever comes to Liverpool and asks for me," says Philip Lacey, "I'll see she's all right. Yes, I will. She shall sell flowers. That'll be better than going about barefoot and getting her poor little foot cut, won't it?"