time when her father had bought the estate, about ten years before the
war, so she had been able to come to Egbert with this for a marriage
portion. And who was more delighted, he or she, it would be hard to say.
She was only twenty at the time, and he was only twenty-one. He had about
a hundred and fifty pounds a year of his own--and nothing else but his
very considerable personal attractions. He had no profession: he earned
nothing. But he talked of literature and music, he had a passion for
old folk-music, collecting folk-songs and folk-dances, studying the
Morris-dance and the old customs. Of course in time he would make money
in these ways.

Meanwhile youth and health and passion and promise. Winifred's father was
always generous: but still, he was a man from the north with a hard head
and a hard skin too, having received a good many knocks. At home he kept
the hard head out of sight, and played at poetry and romance with his
literary wife and his sturdy, passionate girls. He was a man of courage,
not given to complaining, bearing his burdens by himself. No, he did not
let the world intrude far into his home. He had a delicate, sensitive
wife whose poetry won some fame in the narrow world of letters. He
himself, with his tough old barbarian fighting spirit, had an almost
child-like delight in verse, in sweet poetry, and in the delightful game
of a cultured home. His blood was strong even to coarseness. But that
only made the home more vigorous, more robust and Christmassy. There was
always a touch of Christmas about him, now he was well off. If there was
poetry after dinner, there were also chocolates and nuts, and good little
out-of-the-way things to be munching.

Well then, into this family came Egbert. He was made of quite a different
paste. The girls and the father were strong-limbed, thick-blooded people,
true English, as holly-trees and hawthorn are English. Their culture was