ue;" he had put the pony about,--"I'll see
you on the hills in the mornin'!" he was gone down the yellow road like
a winged Mercury.

On the hills behind him, Old Bernique, comprehending and envying,
locked his hands on his saddle-horn in a vehement tension. His lips
moved, and what he said seemed to float out after the flying figure of
the boy like a benediction.

_Chapter Fifteen_

A MISTAKE SOMEWHERE

The afternoon of that day was golden out at Madeira Place. Through the
kitchen windows the sun streamed in, in broad, unfretted bands of light.
Just beyond the window the crab-apple trees and the quince trees and the
pear trees and the damson trees were rioting in blossom.

The kitchen itself was a place to take comfort in. By a table sat fat
black Chloe, seeding raisins, when she was not asleep. Before another
table stood Sally Madeira, her brown, round arms bared to the elbow,
flapping cake batter with a wooden paddle. With her sense of eternal
fitness the girl was a fine housekeeper as easily as she was a sweet
singer and a good horsewoman. She had kept the past beautifully intact
in the old brick-floored room. Overhead hung strings of red peppers,
streaks of scarlet on the heavy black rafters. Little white sacks of
dried things, peas and beans and apples, depended from hooks. Against
the walls were quaint old tin safes, their doors gone, their shelves
covered with dark blue crockery. The tin and brass stuff shone brightly.
On a low shelf stood a great piggin of water, a fat yellow drinking
gourd sticking out of it. The whole picture was a kitchen pastel,
delicately toned, a kitchen of the long ago, Sally Madeira fitting into
it exquisitely, re-establishing the stately domesticity of an old regime
by her fine adaptability and appreciation.

Chloe brought the raisins over to Miss Madeira at last, and let them
drop slowly into the crock, watching carefully for stray bits of stem.

"Simlike nowadays ef he teef go agin a hardness spile he tas' fuh de
cake," she said anxiously.

"We do have to humour his poor appetite, don't we, Chloe? Never mind,
he'll be better soon, I hope."

"Whut madder wid he, Miss Sally, innyhow, Honey?"

"Just overwork, I think, Chloe. Works all the time; in the office now,
bent double over his desk."

The darky shuffled restlessly on her flat feet. "Simlike to me he
pester'd. I d'n know. Miss Sally, who else gwine eat dishyer cake
tumorreh, Honey?"

"I'm not expecting any