early July. The river had lazily flowed past banks gaily decorated
with timid forget-me-nots and purple veitch; the ragged robin had
looked roguishly from the hedge. Such was the heat, that the trees
of her nook had looked longingly towards the cool of the water,
while the scent of lately mown hay seemed to pervade the world. That
was then.

Now, a desolation had invaded the spot. In place of summer gaiety
there was only dreariness. The flowers had gone; a raw wind soughed
along the river's banks; instead of the scent of the hay there was
only the smell of damp earth, as if to proclaim to the girl that
such desolation was the certain heritage of all living things.

Mavis could not get rid of the impression that the contrast between
the place as she remembered it and as it was now resembled her own
life. She made her way, with all dispatch, to the station. Here she
learned that Mrs Farthing could not take her in until the following
day, as her present "visitors" were not leaving till then. Mavis
pricked up her ears at the mention of visitors; she did not think
such polite euphemisms had penetrated so far afield.

She had little thought to give the matter, as she was concerned to
know where she was going to spend the night. Mr Medlicott solved her
perplexity; he insisted upon Mavis seeing Mrs Medlicott, who proved
to be a simple, kindly countrywoman, who dropped an old-fashioned
curtsey directly she set eyes on the girl. The station-master's wife
showed Mavis a little room and told her that she was welcome to the
use of it for the night, if she were not afraid of being kept awake
by the passing and shunting of trains. Mavis jumped at the offer,
whereat Mrs Medlicott insisted on her sitting down to a solid,