"Now then, what d'ye think of that, eh? Kind o' Crystal Palace, that is. Strikes me I should ha' put this cottage in t' _Airlee Mercury_--'Desirable country residence with conservatory. Apply, Goodenough, Windyridge.' Them 'at takes t' cottage gets t' conserva_tory_ thrown in at t' same rent. It was put up by t' last tenant wi' my consent, an' he was as daft as----" "As I am?" I suggested. "Well, he _proved_ hisself daft. He kep' hens i' one part an' flowers in t' other, but he neither fed t' hens nor t' flowers, bein' one o' them menseless creatures 'at gets their heads buried i' books, an' forgets their own meals, let alone t' meals o' them 'at can't sing out for 'em. T' upshot of it all was he left t' cottage an' made me a present of all t' bag o' tricks." Then and there the idea of my studio had its birth. With a very little alteration I saw that I could easily adapt it to photographic purposes; and I was more determined than before--if that were possible--to take possession of my Yorkshire home. I know people will laugh and call me madder than ever. It does seem rather ridiculous to fit up a studio in a village of perhaps a hundred inhabitants, but my Inner Self urges it, and I am going to live by faith and not by sight. I am irrational, I know, but I just don't care. I have got a theory of life--not a very definite one just now, though it is getting clearer--and I am sure I am taking a right step, though I could not explain it if I wished, and I don't wish. Mother Hubbard was tearful when I wished her good-night, and it was as an antidote to pessimism that I took the dear old soul into my arms and bade her stifle her tears and look confidently for my return. Farmer Goodenough's worldly wisdom had convinced her that the anticipations of a quarter-hour ago had been ill-founded. She had counted only too prematurely on my companionship, but the farmer's words had led her to see how unreasonable it was. She was stricken with remorse, too, at the selfishness of her conduct. "You see, love," she explained, as we sought her cottage again and drew our chairs up to the fire--she had turned back her skirt lest the heat should scorch it--"I was just thinking about myself. I'm a lonely old woman, love, and it's only natural I should like the company of a nice, friendly young lady like yourself; but that's just selfishness. You must think over what Reuben has said, and don't do anything rash, but----" "Mother Hubbard," I said, "you need not crumple your apron by turning it into a handkerchief, nor wet it by shedding useless tears. And I'm not a hair-brained young lady, fresh from school, but a sensible woman of thirty-five. Mark my word! At twelve o'clock to-morrow I shall be with you again, and I shall have lunch with you; and you'll oblige me by airing my bed for me, and getting things ship-shape, for to-morrow night I shall be your next-door neighbour."