“Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin' contest,” she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair quickly off his lips.

He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight was falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils. The wind was roaring in the apple trees, the yellow flowers swayed violently up and down, he heard even the fine whisper of their spears as he stooped to break the flattened, brittle stems of the flowers.

“What's to-do?” shouted a friend who met him as he left the garden gate.

“Bit of courtin', like,” said Brangwen.

And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and