“Let’s go a walk somewhere—and let us start now,” said Emily somewhat testily. She did not like this nonsense. “There you are Syb—you’ve got your orders—don’t leave me behind,” wailed Alice. Emily frowned and bit her finger. “Come on, Georgie. You look like the finger of a pair scales—between two weights. Which’ll draw?” “The heavier,” he replied, smiling, and looking neither at Meg or Lettie. “Then it’s Meg,” cried Alice. “Oh, I wish I was fleshy—I’ve no chance with Syb against Pem.” Emily flashed looks of rage; Meg blushed and felt ashamed; Lettie began to recover from her first outraged indignation, and smiled. Thus we went a walk, in two trios. Unfortunately, as the evening was so fine, the roads were full of strollers: groups of three or four men dressed in pale trousers and shiny black cloth coats, following their suspicious little dogs: gangs of youths slouching along, occupied with nothing, often silent, talking now and then in raucous tones on some subject of brief interest: then the gallant husbands, in their tail coats very husbandly, pushing a jingling perambulator, admonished by a much dressed spouse round whom the small members of the family gyrated: occasionally, two lovers walking with a space between them, disowning each other; occasionally, a smartly dressed mother with two little girls in white silk frocks and much expanse of yellow hair, stepping mincingly, and, near by, a father awkwardly controlling his Sunday suit. To endure all this it was necessary to chatter unconcernedly. George had to keep up the conversation behind, and he seemed to do it with ease, discoursing on the lambs, discussing the breed—when Meg exclaimed: “Oh, aren’t they black! They might ha’ crept down th’ chimney. I never saw any like them before.” He described how he had reared two on the bottle, exciting Meg’s keen admiration by his mothering of the lambs. Then he went on to the peewits, harping on the same string: how they would cry and pretend to be wounded—“Just fancy, though!”—and how he had moved the eggs of one pair while he was ploughing, and the mother had followed them, and had even sat watching as he drew near again with the plough, watching him come and go—“Well, she knew you—but they _do_ know those who are kind to them——” “Yes,” he agreed, “her little bright eyes seem to speak as you go by.” “Oh, I do think they’re nice little things—don’t you, Lettie?” cried Meg in access of tenderness. Lettie did—with brevity. We walked over the hills and down into Greymede. Meg thought she ought to go home to her grandmother, and George bade her go, saying he would call and see her in an hour or so. The dear girl was disappointed, but she went unmurmuring. We left Alice with a friend, and hurried home through Selsby to escape the after-church parade.