shouting cowboys, riding scrawny but agile broncos, under whose generalship—for the ponies seemed to take the initiative in the affair—the moving mass of creatures was kept in marching order.
We stood for a moment on the little verandah, waiting for admission "The Perch" is a tiny cottage well up on a brick-red hillside, whence the peak is just visible above the enfolding hills.
The door opened and a little woman on crutches stood before us. She was Miss Willet, the presser of flowers, the friend and presumably the protégé of Miss Lamb. She seemed prepared for our coming, as much so as so small and frail a creature, in so tiny a room, could be prepared for an avalanche of four great hearty men and women. And we soon found that she was mistress of the situation.
"Don't sit down, Lilian," she said, in a high, bird-like treble, "don't sit down till you've fetched the tea. You must be nearly frozen. It's all ready" she added,
