“Ye shouldn’t ha’ had secrets from I, then,” returned he. “Well, we’ll ha’ no more secrets now, my girl, shall us? I’ll gi’e that watch back to the chap and send en about his business.” “But he’ll think it so queer, won’t he?” said she, simpering. “He’ll not think it a bit queer when I do tell en I be a-courtin’ of ye.” “Oh, Timothy!” sighed Ann-Car’line. And then Timothy Kiddle set his lantern on the ground, and, leaning over the hurdles, kissed her with great earnestness and satisfaction. “Nothing like having a thing settled!” said he. ONE ANOTHER’S BURDENS OLD Mrs Spencer picked her way daintily along the path which led from the Frisbys’ little gate to their house-door. The path in question had been raked and was devoid of weeds, and if it had not been for a presumably recent addition of bones and broken crockery in one corner, and a large pool of dirty water, from which shallow streams were slowly making their way to the gate aforesaid, would no doubt have been tidy. The old lady hopped from side to side in the attempt to keep her neat little feet dry, and when she came to the pool itself, on which rings of suds were eddying, stopped short with a disgusted air, and raising her voice, called for Mrs Frisby. The door slowly opened, and a slatternly-looking woman stood upon the threshold. A stout two-year-old child sat on one arm, while the other hand held a penny novelette. A wisp of hair hung loosely over her face, which was as dirty as that of the child; the bodice of her dress was held together by pins, and she altogether presented a most uninviting appearance. She started at sight of the visitor. “I beg pardon, m’m,” she said. “I wish I’d known you was comin’. Thursday is a busy day with us.” “So I see,” responded Mrs Spencer, suffering her eyes to wander over the woman’s figure, and thence towards the corner of the garden, where she could see some dingy-looking clothes hanging on the line. “Most people have finished their washing by Thursday, but you are evidently in the middle of yours.” “Yes, m’m,” admitted Mrs Frisby, dolefully. “There, with all those childern, ye know, m’m, and Frisby coming in and making so much mess, ’tis hard to get on with the work.” “It’s a curious thing,” remarked Mrs Spencer, “that you should prefer to empty your suds out of the front door—and do you find you get on quicker with your work if you read while you’re doing it?” “Well ’m, I’m sure, m’m, I had but just sat down for a minute. Little Harry was a bit peevish, and I couldn’t let him cry—he chanced to prick his finger with a pin, ye see, m’m—” “If there’d been a button there,” said Mrs Spencer, “or a hook and eye, that accident couldn’t have happened. And pray”—peering at the dreadful little book with her sharp eyes—“were you reading ‘Lady Selina’s Lover’ out loud to amuse the baby?”