been pointed out to me that a certain stalwart north countryman,
whose shyness could only be equalled by his appetite, had been a
most regular attendant for some weeks past at our Sunday evening
services, accepting the offer of tea in the kitchen, afterwards,
with great alacrity. I scouted these insinuations, appealing to the
general sense of the public as to whether Moffatt had _ever_ been
known to refuse a meal anywhere, or under any circumstances, and
declaring that, if he was "courting," it was being done in solemn
silence, for never a sound filtered through the thin wooden planks
between the kitchen and the dining room, except the clatter of a
vigorously plied knife and fork, for Moffatt's teas always included
a shoulder of mutton.

But I was wrong and others were right. Early in October, our second
spring month, I chanced to get up betimes one delicious, calm
morning, a morning when it seemed a new and exquisite pleasure to
open each window in succession, and fill one's lungs with a deep,
deep breath of that heavenly atmosphere, at once so fresh and so
pure.

Quiet as the little homestead lay, nestled among the hills, there
were too many morning noises stirring among the animals for any one
to feel lonely or dull, I should have thought. From a distance came
a regular, monotonous, lowing sound. That was "Hetty," the pretty
little yellow Alderney, announcing from the swamps that she and her
two female friends were quite ready to be milked. Their calves
answered them dutifully from the English grass paddock, and between
the two I could see Mr. U---'s tall figure stalking down the flat
with his cattle dog at his heels, and hear his merry whistle
shrilling through the silent air. Then all the ducks and fowls