followed (from the kitchen garden), with a basket of vegetables on her
arm. Unlike the river and the cottage, she gained by being revealed in
the brilliant sunlight. I now saw, in their full beauty, the luster of
her brown eyes, the warm rosiness of her dark complexion, the delightful
vivacity of expression which was the crowning charm of her face. She
paused confusedly in the doorway, and tried to resist me when I insisted
on relieving her of the basket.

"Mr. Gerard," she protested, "you are treating me as if I was a young
lady. What would they say at the great house, if they knew you had done
that?"

My answer would no doubt have assumed the form of a foolish compliment,
if her father had not spared her that infliction. He returned to the
all-important question, the question of repairs.

"You see, sir, it's no use speaking to the bailiff. Saving your presence,
he's a miser with his master's money. He says, 'All right,' and he does
nothing. There's first, as I told you just now, the truly dreadful state
of the drains----"

I tried to stop him by promising to speak to the bailiff myself. On
hearing this good news, Mr. Toller's gratitude became ungovernable: he
was more eager than ever, and more eloquent than ever, in returning to
the repairs.

"And then, sir, there's the oven. They do call bread the staff of life.
It's a burnt staff at one time, and a clammy staff at another, in our
domestic experience. Satisfy yourself, sir; do please cross the kitchen
and look with your own eyes at the state, the scandalous state, of the