aced, snub-nosed boy
with a girlish mouth, a little in advance, Eugenia following, and the
puppy at her heels. On the way across the meadow, where myriads of
grasshoppers darted with a whirring noise beneath the leaves of coarse
mullein plants or the slender, unopened pods of milkweed, the puppy made
sudden desperate skirmishes into the tangled pathside, pointing
ineffectually at the heavy-legged insects, his red tongue lolling and
his short tail wagging. Up the steep ascent of the orchard a rocky trail
ran, bordered by a rail fence. From the point of the hill one could see
the adjoining country unrolled like a map, olive heights melting into
emerald valleys, bare clearings into luxuriant crops, running a
chromatic scale from the dry old battlefields surrounding Kingsborough
to the arable "bottoms" beside the enrichening river.

After an unsuccessful search for cherries Bernard climbed a tree where
summer apples hung green, and tossed the fruit to Eugenia, who held up
her blue skirt beneath the overhanging boughs. The puppy, having dodged
in astonishment a stray apple, went off after the silvery track of a
snail.

"That's enough," called Bernard presently, and he descended and filled
his pockets from Eugenia's lap. "They set my teeth on edge, anyway. Got
any salt?"

Eugenia drew a small folded envelope from her pocket. Then she threw
away her apple and pointed to the little brook at the foot of the hill.
"There's that red-winged blackbird in the bulrushes again. I believe
it's got a nest."

And they started in a run down the hillside, the puppy waddling behind
with shrill, impertinent barks.

At the bottom of the hill they lost the blackbird and found Nicholas
Burr, who was lying face downwards upon the earth, a fishing line at his
side.

"He's crying," said Eugenia in a high whisper.

Nicholas rolled over, saw them, and got up, wiping his eyes on the
sleeve of his shirt.

"There warn't nobody lookin'," he said defiantly.

"You're too big to cry," observed Bernard dispassionately, munching a
green apple he had taken from his pocket. "You're as big as I am, and I
haven't cried since I was six years old. Eugie cries."

"I don't!" protested Eugenia vehemently. "I reckon you'd cry too if they
made you sit in the house the whole afternoon and hem cup-towels."

"I'm a boy, Miss Spitfire. Boys don't sew. I saw Nick Burr milking,
though, one day. What made you milk, Nick?"

"Ma did."

"I'd like to see anybody