unhappy."

Mamma was smiling in a nervous way. "What am I to say to Mrs. Draper?"

"Tell her that Mr. Jourdain was right and that I am not at all unhappy."

She was glad to take the letter to the post and set his mind at rest.

It was in June last year that Maurice Jourdain had come to her: June the
twenty-fourth. To-day was the twenty-fifth. He must have remembered.

The hayfields shone, ready for mowing. Under the wind the shimmering hay
grass moved like waves of hot air, up and up the hill.

She slipped through the gap by Morfe Bridge and went up the fields to the
road on Greffington Edge. She lay down among the bracken in the place
where Roddy and she had sat two years ago when they had met Mr. Sutcliffe
coming down the road.

The bracken hid her. It made a green sunshade above her head. She shut
her eyes.

"Kikerikueh! sie glaubten
Es waere Hahnen geschrei."

That was all nonsense. Maurice Jourdain would never have crept in the
little hen-house and hidden himself under the straw. He would never have
crowed like a cock. Mark and Roddy would. And Harry Craven and Jimmy.
Jimmy would certainly have hidden himself under the straw.