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 gardener mislaid her scissors: they had fallen into the marigolds below, and Mrs. Nye, whose instincts were strongly helpful, was compelled to call out and tell her so. It ended in her going into the garden to pick them out.

“I’m much obliged to ye, I’m sure. Stranger, ain’t ye, dear? I don’t remember to ha’ seen ye ’ereabout afore,” said the little old lady, looking up at her with dim blue eyes.

She was really an old lady; she would never see eighty again, Mrs. Nye decided.

“Yes’m,” she replied respectfully, for she belonged to a generation that had learnt enough to reverence old age. “’Tain’t but nine months, come next Saturday week, as I left my ’ome in Englan’.”

“Englan’? Ah, an’ I come from Henglan’, too,” said the little old lady. “But ’tis five-an’-forty year ago, so it is. My kettle’s just a-singin’, dear; won’t ye step in, an’ set down, an’ ’ave a nice cup o’ tea wi’ me, an’ talk a bit about ’Ome? Do, now.”

If she had suggested a nice cup of poison, with that same tempting accompaniment, I believe Mrs. Nye would almost have accepted it. She followed her hostess in through the green-blue door, to a room which was a little dark, and a little airless, as English cottage-rooms are apt to be, and none the less welcome to our friend on that account. The heavy furniture, too, was delightfully reminiscent—there was a great deal of shining darkwood about it; there was a grandfather’s clock in one corner, and in another a cupboard with glass doors, and china gleaming through the glass; and on the mantel