“Oh don’t let us go just yet!” she exclaimed, as Ralph closed the book. “It can’t be time to go back to those stuffy rooms.” “I’m in no hurry,” said Ralph, stretching himself, and falling back into a more comfortable attitude. He could not see Ivy’s face, but he could see her little, slender fingers as they pulled the petals off a daisy. The result seemed to displease her; she threw away the remains of the flower, and gathering another diligently pulled off each pink-tipped petal, but again threw the stalk from her with a little impatient gesture. Then she began upon a third, and had become absorbed in her counting, when suddenly she felt Ralph’s hand lay hold of hers. “Caught in the act,” he said, laughing. “Don’t you know that fortune-telling is illegal?” “Not if you tell your own,” said Ivy. Something in her voice made him look at her, and for the first time in her little childish face he detected an expression which made him clearly understand that he was not dealing with a mere girl but with a woman. Long ago he had realised that her hard experience of life had robbed Ivy of the innocent ignorance which had kept Evereld so young; but he had naturally fallen into the habit of treating her as he would have treated any other girl of fifteen with whom he was brought into constant companionship. Thinking it over now it suddenly occurred to him that during the Scotch tour Ivy had lost her brisk, managing way, that she was very different from the independent little being who ordered the Professor’s affairs for him, that she had become unnaturally fond of being helped and protected. An uncomfortable fear crossed his mind, but he thought it best to laugh and try to change the subject. “Are you doing the old thing that Evereld and I used to be fond of!--‘Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor?’ And have you always been fated to wed the thief that you throw away one daisy after another?” “That’s a silly old rhyme,” said Ivy. “Of course I should never think of marrying any one who wasn’t in the profession.” “Oh, that’s quite a mistake,” said Ralph, lightly, determined that he must be cruel only to be kind. “Two of a trade seldom agree, you know. You should marry a dreamy philosopher who needed waking up, and being looked after.” Ivy blushed, and was silent, and Ralph was not sorry to be taken to task by Myra Kay for his rash assertion that two of a trade never agreed. They fell into a merry bantering discussion during which Ivy recovered herself. After all, she reflected, why should she be unhappy because he had teased her a little? His words no doubt meant nothing at all; she would not spoil this happy afternoon by tormenting herself. “To-morrow’s my birthday,” she said, gaily, as they walked back to Forres. “I’m going to be sixteen. There’s no rehearsal, and I vote that we three have a real picnic.” “Carried unanimously,” said Ralph. “We might go as far as this Heronry they speak of. The longer we are out of our dismal diggings the better.”