home; the bare white cottage on the hillside where no trees grew, where all was so narrow and cold, and where life seemed to be made up of scrubbing, sweeping, and washing. She looked longingly down from this sometimes to the valley where the farm stood.

But other eyes, and Mrs White’s in particular, saw a very different state of things when they looked at Orchards Farm. She knew that under this smiling outside face lay hidden care and anxiety; for her brother, Farmer Greenways, was in debt and short of money. Folks shook their heads when it was mentioned, and said: “What could you expect?” The old people remembered the prosperous days at the farm, when the dairy had been properly worked, and the butter was the best you could get anywhere round. There was the pasture land still, and a good lot of cows, but since the Greenways had come there the supply of butter was poor, and sometimes the whole quantity sent to market was so carelessly made that it was sour. Whose fault was it? Mrs Greenways would have said that Molly, the one overworked maid servant, was to blame; but other people thought differently, and Mrs White was as usual outspoken in her opinions to her sister-in-law: “It ’ull never be any different as long as you don’t look after the dairy yourself, or teach Bella to do it. What does Molly care how the butter turns out?”

But Bella tossed her head at the idea of working, as she expressed it, “like a common servant”, or indeed at working at all. She considered that her business in life was to be genteel, and to be properly genteel was to do nothing useful. So she studied the fashion books which Gusta sent from London, made up wonderful costumes for herself, curled her hair in the last style, and read the stories about dukes and earls and countesses which came out in the Family Herald.

The smart bonnets and dresses which Mrs Greenways and her daughters wore on Sundays in spite of hard times and poor crops and debt were the wonder of the whole congregation, and in Mrs White’s case the wonder was mixed with scorn. “Peter’s the only one among ’em as is good for anything,” she sometimes said, “an’ he’s naught but a puzzle-headed sort of a chap.” Peter was the farmer’s only son, a loutish youth of fifteen, steady and plodding as his plough horses and almost as silent.

It was April again, bright and breezy, and all the cherry trees at the farm were so white with bloom that standing under them you could scarcely see the sky. The grass in the orchard was freshly green and sprinkled with daisies, amongst which families of fluffy yellow ducklings trod awkwardly about on their little splay feet, while the careful mother hens picked out the best morsels of food for them. This food was flung out of a basin by Agnetta Greenways, who stood there squarely erect uttering a monotonous “Chuck, chuck, chuck,” at intervals. Agnetta did not care for the poultry, or indeed for any of the creatures on the farm; they were to her only troublesome things that wanted looking after, and she would have liked not to have had anything to do with them. Just now, however, there was a week’s holiday at the school, and she was obliged to use her leisure in helping her mother, much against her will. Agnetta had a stolid face with a great deal of colour in her cheeks; her hair was black, but at this hour it was so tightly done up in curl papers that the colour could hardly be seen. She wore an old red merino dress which had once been a smart one, but was now degraded to what she called “dirty work”, and was covered with patches and stains. Her hands and wrists were very large, and looked capable of hard work, as indeed did the whole person of Agnetta from top to toe.

“Chuck, chuck, chuck,” she repeated as she threw out the last spoonful; then, raising her eyes, she became aware of a little figure in the distance, running towards her across the field at the bottom of the orchard.

“Lor’!” she exclaimed aloud, “if here isn’t Lilac White!”

It was a slight little figure clothed in a cotton frock which had once been blue in colour, but had been washed so very often that it now approached a shade of green; over it was a long straight pinafore gathered round the neck with a string, and below it appeared blue worsted stockings, and thick, laced boots. Her black hair was brushed back and plaited in one long tail tied at the end with black ribbon, and in her hand she carried a big sunbonnet, swinging it round and round in the air as she ran. As she came nearer the orchard gate, it was easy to see that she had some news to tell, for her small features worked with excitement, and her grey eyes were bright with eagerness.

Agnetta advanced slowly to meet her with the empty basin in her hand, and unlatched the gate.

“Whatever’s the matter?” she asked.

Lilac could not answer just at first, for she had been running a long way, and her breath came in short gasps. She came to a standstill under the trees, and Agnetta stared gravely at her with her mouth wide open. The two girls formed a strong contrast to each other. Lilac’s white face and the faded colour of her dress matched the blossoms and leaves of the cherry trees in their delicacy, while about the red-cheeked Agnetta there was something firm and positive, which suggested the fruit which would come later.

“I came—” gasped Lilac at last, “I ran—I thought I must tell you—”

“Well,” said Agnetta, still staring at her in an unmoved manner, “you’d better fetch your breath, and then you’ll be able to tell me. Come and sit down.”

There was a bench under one of the trees near where she had been feeding the ducks. The two girls sat down, and presently Lilac was able to say: “Oh, Agnetta, the artist gentleman wants to put me in a picture!”

“Whatever do you mean, Lilac White?” was Agnetta’s only reply. Her slightly disapproving voice calmed Lilac’s excitement a little.

“This is how it was,” she continued more quietly. “You know he’s lodging at the ‘Three Bells?’ and he comes an’ sits at the bottom of our hill an’ paints all day.”

“Of course I know,” said Agnetta. “It’s a poor sort of an object he’s copyin’, too—Old Joe’s tumble-down cottage. I peeped over his shoulder t’other day—’taint much like.”

“Well, I pass him every day comin’ from school, and he always looks up at me eager without sayin’ nothing. But this morning he says, ‘Little gal,’ says he, ‘I want to put you into my picture.’”

“Lor’!” put in Agnetta, “whatever can he want to paint you for?”

“So I didn’t say nothing,” continued Lilac, “because he looked so hard at me that I was skeert-like. So then he says very impatient, ‘Don’t you understand? I want you to come here in that frock and that bonnet in your hand, and let me paint you, copy you, take your portrait. You run and ask Mother.’”

“I never did!” exclaimed Agnetta, moved at last. “Whatever can he want to do it for? An’ that frock, an’ that silly bonnet an’ all! He must be a crazy gentleman, I should say.” She gave a short laugh, partly of vexation.

“But that ain’t all,” continued Lilac; “just as I was turning to go he calls after me, ‘What’s yer name?’ And when I told him he shouts out, ‘What!’ with his eyes hanging out ever so far.”

“Well, I dare say he thought it was a silly-sounding sort of a name,” observed Agnetta.

“He said it over and over to hisself, and laughed right out—‘Lilac White! White Lilac!’ says he. ‘What a subjeck! What a name! Splendid!’ An’ then he says to me quieter, ‘You’re a very nice little girl indeed, and if Mother will let you come I’ll give you sixpence for every hour you stand.’ So then I went an’ asked Mother, and she said yes, an’ then I ran all the way here to tell you.”

Lilac looked round as she finished her wonderful story. Agnetta’s eyes were