don't you suppose he
might come to the point of proposing to fly with me? That would be a
consummation devoutly to be worked for."

"Phil, I'll send you to bed if you talk like that."

"There's always the window and the old apple tree; I dare you to put me
to bed! I suppose," she said, nodding in the direction of the roses,
"that those are a sort of peace offering, to make up for his uncle
coming to the party as he did. If that's the idea it was decent of him."

The maid brought in a box that had just been left at the kitchen door.
Phil ran to the window and caught a glimpse of a man closing the gate.
It was Fred Holton, in a long ulster with the collar turned up about his
ears. He untied his horse, attached to a ramshackle buggy, and drove
off. Phil recognized him instantly, but made no sign to Nan.

Across the top of the small pasteboard box, "Perishable" was scrawled.
Inside, neatly dressed, lay six quails. On a card was written:--

"_Compliments of Listening Hill Farm._"

"What's Listening Hill Farm?" asked Nan.

"That's Fred Holton's. He lives out there now. It's just like that boy
to slip round to the back door with an offering like that. Roses from
Charlie; birds from Fred. And there's just about that difference between
them."

Nan's eyes clouded.

"Phil," she said with emphasis, "those three aunts of yours haven't the
sense of rabbits! The comparison flatters them. They had no business
asking the Holtons to your party. It was unnecessary--it was absurd. It
was cruel!"

Nan was not often like this. There was unmistakable indignation in her
tone as she continued:--

"Your Uncle Amzi should have set his face against it. And I suppose they
were satisfied with the outcome; I devoutly hope so."

"Well, don't jump on Amy; he only let them have their way to avoid a
fuss. When the three of them descend on him they do try Amy's soul; he
never admits it, but I always know afterwards. It unsettles him for a
week."

"Those women," said Nan, "have been all over town apologizing for Jack
Holton--as though it was up to them to defend him for turning up at your
party vilely drunk. I tell you, Phil, I'm glad you have the sense you
have in that head of yours and that you've grown up to a point where we
can talk of things. The Holtons are no good! There's a crooked streak in
the whole lot. And all that's the matter with your blessed trio of aunts
is their ambition to stand well with Mrs. William, and your precious