'You'm as good a walker as John of No Man's Parish,' replied Abel, 'and
he walks for ever, so they do say.'

As Hazel set forth in the sharp, fresh morning, the Callow shone with
radiant brown and silver, and no presage moved within it of the snow
that would hurtle upon it from mountains of cloud all night.

When Hazel had chosen her dress--a peacock blue serge--and had put it
on there and then in the back of the shop, curtained off for this
purpose, she went to her aunt's.

Her cousin Albert regarded her with a startled look. He was in a
margarine shop, and spent his days explaining that Margarine was as
good as butter. But, looking at Hazel, he felt that here _was_
butter--something that needed no apology, and created its own demand.
The bright blue made her so radiant that her aunt shook her head.

'You take after your ma, 'Azel,' she said. Her tone was irritated.

'I be glad.'

Her aunt sniffed.

'You ought to be as glad to take after one parent as another, if you
were jutiful,' she said.

'I dunna want to take after anybody but myself.' Hazel flushed
indignantly.

'Well! we _are_ conceited!' exclaimed her aunt. 'Albert, don't