No wonder the wind chose it so often for its partner as it danced through the garden, scorning to notice the heavy homespun things about it.

It was not every day that that washing-day wind met so fine a lady, and it was charming to see how gently he played about her stockings.

"Ah, wind," I said, "evidently you are a gallant born; but tell us the name of the lady.
It is somewhere on that pretty petticoat, I'll be bound." Is she some little danseuse with the whim to be romantically rustic for a week?
or is she somebody else's pretty wife run away with somebody else's man?
or is she some naughty little grisette with an extravagant lover?
or is she just the usual lady landscape artist, with a more than usual taste in lingerie?
At all events, it was fairly obvious that, for one reason or another, the wearer of the petticoat and stockings which have now occupied us for perhaps a sufficient number of pages, was a visitor at the cottage.
The next thing was to get a look at her.

So, remembering how fond I was of milk from the cow, I pushed open the gate and advanced to the cottage door..