Her starved, city-ridden spirit had blossomed and become healthy out there in the country like a root of Creeping Jenny taken from a pot on the window-sill of a slum house and put back into good brown earth.
The rough and ready family with whom they were lodging kept a duck farm, and it was to this white army of restless, greedy things that Tootles owed her first laugh.

Tired and smut-bespattered after a tedious railway journey she had eagerly and with childish joy gone at once to see them fed, the old and knowing, the young and optimistic, and all the yellow babies with uncertain feet and tiny noises.

After that, a setting sun which set fire to the sky and water and trees, melting and mingling them together, and Tootles turned the corner.

The motherless waif slept that night on Nature's maternal breast and was comforted.
The warm-hearted Irene was proud of herself.

Devon--Heaven--it was indeed an inspiration.