As we neared the wicket, Bess called out, "Look, look, and see what I have found. Three snowdrops all white, a hazel nut-tail, and a nice sticky bud of a horse-chestnut; but never mind anything but the snowdrops, for they bring luck, Nana says." I took the first flowers of the year; what a dazzling white they were! And I recalled, as I held them, the old legend of the "white purification" as it was once called. "And to think," said Betty, smiling and noting our joy over the flowers, "as I haven't a blow to give my pretty," and she smiled at Bess; "but us has nought in blow, save a bud or two of the damsons, and I dursn't pull it, for folks say, him as pulls fruit blossom deserves the same as her as burns bread-crumbs, and I wouldn't bring her any ill-chance." Then I passed out of the little cottage precincts. I saw old Betty still holding the gate, a dim figure with a red shawl. Bess blew her a kiss, the dogs barked furiously; even Mouse joined in her deep bell notes, and once more we were under way on our own homeward journey. A soft grey mist gathered round us, with the growing darkness. All was very still after a few minutes, and the only sound that we heard was the baying of a dog in the distance at some lonely farm. Far away in the west gleamed a golden light. Once we passed a brown figure of some labouring man returning to his cottage, and as we neared a thicket of budding blackthorn we were greeted by the voice of a throstle singing his evening hymn. I carried my flowers reverently, for were they not the first promise of spring, the smile, as it were, of the scarce known year? "Mum," said Bess, as I lifted her off Jill's back, "could you spare me one of the snowdrops to keep in my own nursery?" I nodded acquiescence. "Because," pursued the child, "I should like one. Just one. It would help me, I think, to keep away eyes, and bad words, and perhaps might make me good and happy. Nan says they used to bring in snowdrops to make the children good, let me try, too." CHAPTER III _MARCH_ "To birdes and beestes That no blisse ne knoweth, And wild worms in wodes Through wynter thou them grievest, And makest hem welneigh meke, And mylde for defaute, And after thou sendest hem somer, That is hiz sovereign joye, And blisse to all that be, Both wilde and tame." _Vision of Piers Ploughman._