the wood with chattering and laughter. Only one lingered, playing
under a tree, and finishing the song. The child's voice rose shrill
and clear like that of the blackbird above him. He also sang of
Life--Eternal life--knowing little more than the bird of the meaning
of his song, and having little less of that devotion of innocence in
which happiness is praise.

But Ida had ceased to listen to the singing. Her whole attention was
given to the children as they scampered past the hedge, dropping bits
of moss and fungi and such like woodland spoil. For, tightly held in
the grubby hands of each--plucked with reckless indifference to bud
and stalk, and fading fast in their hot prisons--were primroses. Ida
started to her feet, a sudden idea filling her brain. The birds were
right, Spring had come, and there were flowers--_flowers for Mrs.
Overtheway_.

Ida was a very quiet, obedient little girl, as a general rule; indeed,
in her lonely life she had small temptation to pranks or mischief of
any kind. She had often been sent to play in the back garden before,
and had never thought of straying beyond its limits; but to-day a
strong new feeling had been awakened by the sight of the primroses.

"The hole is very large," said Ida, looking at the gap in the hedge;
"if that dead root in the middle were pulled up, it would be
wonderfully large."

She pulled the root up, and, though wonderful is a strong term, the
hole was certainly larger.

"It is big enough to put one's head through," said Ida, and, stooping