till. The western sky was beginning to redden. A
crisp rustling came from the shocks of Indian corn in a near field.

"It must be after five ... time for my Bobbikins to be trotting home,"
said Sophy, taking his sober face between her hands and crumpling it
together like a soft flower. Then she laughed and kissed the crumpled
flower of the little face.

"_Ho-o-o-g! Ho-o-o-g!_" came the long-drawn, minor wail of a negro-voice
calling the swine from the mountain for their evening feed.

Rosa went off down the hill, with Bobby trotting at her side. Once the
little fellow looked back--only once. His dignity forbade that he should
be thought regretful. And "Muvvah" had promised to come and roast
chestnuts for him before his bedtime.

"Now for a brisk walk!" said Sophy. "Let's strike into the woods at
random and go a little way up the mountain--not far--I must be back to
roast those chestnuts before Bobby's bedtime."

"You never break your word to him, do you?" said Loring, as they plunged
into the golden depths that seemed aglow with stored sunlight.

"No. Never. I'd rather break my word to ten grown-ups than to one
child."

They went on in silence for some yards, the dried leaves ruffling almost
to their knees in places. Then Loring said:

"If you once gave your word you wouldn't break it to child or grown-up."

"I don't know.... I've never been tested."

"I know."

"Thanks. But you shouldn't get into the habit of idealising people.
You'll end as a cynic if you do."

Her tone was pleasantly mocking.

Loring said quietly:

"I've never idealised but one person in my life."

"Well ... perhaps that's being a little _too_ cautious."

"Caution has nothing to do with it. Such things come or they don't
come."

"Yes ... perhaps they do. Ah! Wild grapes! What beauties!"

She stood gazing up at the little clusters of purple-black fox-grapes
that hung against the arch of yellow leaves overhead. The vine had swung
itself in great loops about a dogwood tree. The grapes were like a
delicate design of wrought iron work against the gilded background of
autumn leaves. But they hung high--out of reach. Loring caught at them
with the handle of his riding-crop. Some of the ripe, purplish beads
pattered about them.

"No--no! You can't get them that way," said Sophy. "They're too ripe."

"Wait.... I'll have a go for them this way," said Loring.

He grasped a bough of the tree in either hand, shook it to assure
himself t