IN A HAMPSHIRE VILLAGE 165 



shouting, people talking, carts rattling by and all kinds 

 of noises! It made her head ache at first. Then at 

 night, how they niisseil the night birds' sounds — the 

 hooting of the wood owls, especially in winter, and in 

 summer the reeling of nightjars, and the corncrake and 

 the nightingale. 



Thus for half an hour tiie poor woman talked and 

 talked about her old life on the heath, laughing a little 

 now and then at her own feelings — the absurdity of her 

 home-sickness when she was so near the old spot — but 

 always with a little break in her voice, avoiding all the 

 time the one subject uppermost in her mind — the very 

 one I was waiting for her to come to. And in the end 

 she had to come to it, and after putting her hand up 

 to hide the tears that could not be kept back, she was 

 relieved, and began to speak freely of the lost child. 

 Violet was her name, and every one who knew her said 

 that no fitter name could have been given her, she was 

 so beautiful, so like a flower, with eyes that were like 

 violets. And she had the greatest love for flow'ers for a 

 small child. Nobody had seen anything like it, Dolls 

 and toys she didn't care for — she was all for flowers. 

 As for sense, she had as much of it as any grown-up 

 person when she was no more than five. She was a 

 most loving little thing, but cared most for her father, 

 and every evening when he came home she would fly 

 to meet him, and would sit on his knee till bedtime. 

 What talks those two had ! Now the most curious thing 

 remains to tell, and this was about both the children — 

 the way in which they would spend most of their time. 



