too prudish to refuse the pleasure she so thoroughly enjoyed. But
afternoon tea was her privileged hour--the time at which she wore her
prettiest frock, and forgot to regret her inferiority to Lesbia in all
the graces of womanhood.

One afternoon, when they had all three walked to Easedale Tarn, and were
coming back by the side of the force, picking their way among the grey
stones and the narrow threads of silvery water, it suddenly occurred to
Hammond to ask Mary about that queer old man he had seen on the Fell
nearly a fortnight before. He had often thought of making the inquiry
when he was away from Mary, but had always forgotten the thing when he
was with her. Indeed, Mary had a wonderful knack of making him forget
everything but herself.

'You seem to know every creature in Grasmere, down to the two-year-old
babies,' said Hammond, Mary having just stopped to converse with an
infantine group, straggling and struggling over the boulders. 'Pray, do
you happen to know a man called Barlow, a very old man?'

'Old Sam Barlow,' exclaimed Mary; 'why, of course I know him.'

She said it as if he were a near relative, and the question palpably
absurd.

'He is an old man, a hundred, at least, I should think,' said Hammond.

'Poor old Sam, not much on the wrong side of eighty. I go to see him
every week, and take him his week's tobacco, poor old dear. It is his
only comfort.'