As to Mavis, she had another baby—­a boy this time—­and she was an infinitely proud mother as well as a very busy woman.  She kept cows, poultry and bees; could and did distil a remarkably choice sloe gin, had achieved some reputation for her early peas and late lettuces, and had made the quadrangle in front of the house a sight that even tourists from London talked about.  It blazed with color from May to November, and there was one of the Rodhaven drivers who on several occasions stopped his char-a-bancs to let the passengers have a long look at it.  Wandering artists, too, fascinated by the stone walls, the flowers, the white paint, and the green shutters, would sometimes ring the bell and ask if Mrs. Dale let lodgings.

Mrs. Dale was rather crushing to masculine intruders of this sort, especially when they adopted an off-handedly gallant air.

In answering their questions she drawled slightly, and smiled in a manner that, although not contemptuous, might permit them to guess that they had made a tactless mistake.

“Oh, no, we do not let lodgings.”

“Don’t you really?  I think you ought to, you know.”

“Possibly,” said Mavis, drawling and smiling.  “But Mr. Dale and I do not think so.  Of course if we did, we should put up a board, or notice—­and you may observe that there isn’t one.”

She was, however, always gentle and forbearing with wanderers of her own sex.  To two ladies who expressed disappointment at finding no apartments and asked if she did not at least provide afternoon tea, she said at once, “Oh, certainly, I shall be delighted to give you some tea.”

They were tired, dusty, not young; and she showed them into the grand front parlor that contained her piano, pictures, well-bound books, and there laid the table and brought the tea with her own hands.  Such a tea—­the best china, thick cream, three sorts of jam, cakes, and jolly round home-made bannocks!  The ladies were so pleased, until they became embarrassed.  For of course when they wished to pay, Mavis could not accept payment.

“Oh, indeed no.  You’re very welcome.  I hope that you’ll stop and rest as long as you like;” and faintly blushing she shied away from the open purse and hurried out of the room.

“What on earth are we to do?” said one of the ladies.

“I saw a child in the passage,” said the other lady.  “Let us offer the child a present.”

“Ah.  That solves the difficulty.  But how much?  I suppose it must be half-a-crown.”

“Nonsense!” said the other lady, tartly.  “That is more than the price of the whole meal if she had let us pay for it.  A present of a shilling at the outside.  No, a shilling is absurd.  Sixpence.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Yes, sixpence wrapped up in a bit of paper.”

“Then you must offer it.”

And the other lady did.  “Is that your little girl?  Oh, what brown eyes—­and mamma’s pretty complexion.  Good afternoon!  We are so much obliged.  And this is for you, dear—­to buy sweeties.”