The Ballad and the Source [antikvár]

Part One One day my mother told me that Mrs. Jardiné had asked us to pick primroses on her hill, and then, when we had picked as many as we wanted, to come in and have tea with her. " Mrs. Jardine ? " we said. " Is that the lady the house at the top belongs to ? " " Yes," said my mother. " The Priory." She had the note in her hand : violet paper, a large, clear, square-looking spidery writing. " The one who wrote to you before from France to say she was an old friend of our Grandma's and we were to pick primroses on the hill every year till she came back ? " " Yes. An old Mrs. Grant Dugdale lived there when I was first married. She was Major Jardine's aunt, I believe. She called, and I returned her call, but I haven't been there since. She became completely crippled with arthritis and she went away years ago to live in Bath. Then she died and Major Jardine inherited the place. But he never came thjere to live ; he let it. I think his tenants only went there at week-ends—rich business people, I believe—I never came across them. Yes. . . . She wrote some years ago. . . . Yes. It was such a kind thought." My mother looked absent and dubious. She fingered the note and screwed her eyes up faintly to re-read it. " We are getting too old to wander all our days, and Harrys torn roots in England and his childhood home have ached more and more with the passage of the years. . , ." " Is that what she says ?" I asked, startled. Immediately, I felt attracted towards a lady who expressed herself with such picturesqueness. " She means he was homesick," said my mother. " So we have come back i and are hoping that the climate will permit us to be well enough to enjoy these beauties for at least the major part of