, but somehow
each high endeavour had turned out like the race for the quarter dollar
in the berry patch; she was always just about to grasp the prize, when
some unfortunate picker fell across her path with a spilled pail.

There was that day when she and Mary and Sandy were all ready to go to
High School together. But Father died that summer, and it was decreed
that the expense of three in the town could not be met. So Christina
stayed, partly because the other two were older, but mostly because
Mary cried bitterly at the suggestion that Christina go in her place.

Then there came a second chance when Sandy had graduated and started to
teach school, but Grandpa took very ill and could not bear that she
leave him. The third time proved the charm, for she did get away, and
for a whole year spread her wings gloriously in Algonquin High School.
She did wonders, too, taking two years' work in one, but the crops were
poor the next year and Mary had to take her term at the Teachers'
Training School, and the expense for two could not be met.

And so here she was at nineteen, burning to be up and away, and vowing
to herself that not another year would pass over her head and find her
still in Orchard Glen milking cows and feeding chickens.

The world about her did not seem to be in accord with her thoughts. It
was full of joy and contentment with its beautiful lot. The robins in
the gay orchard boughs were shouting that it was a glorious place to
live in. Away up in the elm tree before the house an oriole was
blowing his little golden trumpet, his flashing coat rivalling the row
of scarlet and golden tulips that bordered the garden path. The little
green lawn before the house sparkled under a diamond-spangled web.

From beyond the pink and white screen of the orchard came the happy
sounds of the barnyard; the clatter of the bars as Sandy turned the
cows into the back lane; Old Sport's bark; Jimmie's high voice scolding
the calf that was trying to swallow the pail for breakfast; the squeal
of hungry little pigs; the clatter of hens and many other voices making
up the Barnyard Spring Song.

Christina's pet kitten, a tiny black blot on the pink and green, came
daintily down the path to meet her, mindful of her two pails of warm
milk. Sport, who had succeeded in putting the cows into their places,
came bounding up in a fit of boisterous familiarity, and leaped at the
little black ball with a gay,

"Woof! How are you