Ruth had been to no more parties; the days at home were too wonderful. She garnered each into her store as a precious gift. But the neighbours liked to drop in and potter round or sit on the terrace. The place was undoubtedly amazingly beautiful and perfect in its way. The friendliness and trust of all that lived and moved at Thorpe appealed even to the unreceptive. Here there were white pigeons that fluttered round your head and about your feet. Unafraid, bright-eyed tiny beautiful birds came close, so that you made real acquaintance with those creatures of the blue sky, the leaf and the sunlight. So timid always of their hereditary enemy through the ages, yet here the bolder spirits would almost feed from your hand. Their charm of swift movement, of sudden wings, seen so near, surprised and delighted. Their bright eager eyes looked at you as friends. The calves running with their mothers in the fields rubbed rough silken foreheads against you; and gentle velvet-nosed cart-horses came to you over the gates asking for apples. The children showed you their quaint treasures, their little play homes in the trees and by the river. In their wood the Michaelmas daisies, mauve and white and purple, were making a brave show, and scarlet poppies, bad farmers but good beauties, bordered the pale gold stubble fields. Everywhere was the fragrant pungent scent of autumn and the glory of fruitful old Mother Earth yielding of her wondrous store to those who love her and work for it. Mr. Pithey was fond of coming, and, still undaunted, made Ruth fresh offers to buy Thorpe. “You’ve got the pick of the soil here,” he complained. “Now I’ve not a rose in my place to touch those Rayon d’Or of yours. Second crop too! And ain’t for want of the best manure, or choosing the right aspect. My man knows what he’s about too. Better than yours does, I reckon. He was head man to the Duke of Richborough, so he ought to.” Ruth’s eyes twinkled. “Try giving them away,” she suggested. “Givin’ ’em away!” Mr. Pithey glared at her. “Giving them away,” repeated Ruth firmly. “Now sit down here while I tell you all about it.” Ruth herself was sitting on a heap of stubble by the side of the corn field, with little Moira Kent tucked close to her side. Mr. Pithey had one of his little girls with him, and both were dressed as usual in new and expensive clothing. They looked at Ruth’s heap of stubble with evident suspicion, then the child advanced a step towards her. “Are you going to tell us a story?” Ruth smiled. “If you like I will,” she said. The child’s rather commonplace pert little face broke into an answering smile. She took out a very fine lace-bordered handkerchief and spread it carefully on the ground. Then she sat down on it with her legs sticking out in front of her.