the tree, and dropped
the apples down into her apron.

"Mr. Lane," said Miss Joey, in an impressive undertone, "did you ever
hear of anybody's bewitchin' anybody?"

"In books, Joey," he answered.

"Wal," said she, in a low, but decided voice, "I'll tell you what I
think, and what's ben my mind from the beginnin' on't. That gal's
bewitched David. Don't you remember," she continued, "that the fust week
they come David had a bad cold?"

"Wal, like enough he did," drawled the old man. "David was always
subject to a bad cold."

"He did," replied Miss Joey. "I've got the whole on't in my mind now.
And mebby you've noticed that these folks are great for gatherin' in
herbs, and lobely, and bottlin' up hot-crop?"

"Pepper-tea's a suvverin' remedy for a cold," put in the old man.

"But now," Miss Joey proceeded, sinking her voice almost to a whisper,
"I want to fix your thoughts on somethin' dark-colored, in a vial, that
she fetched across the entry for him to take."

"Help him any?"

"Can't say it did, and can't say it didn't. But ever sence that, David's
ben a different man. He's follered that gal about as if there'd ben a
chain a-drawin' him,--as if she'd flung a lassoo round his neck, and was
pullin' him along. See him, and you see her. If she wants huckleberries,
she has huckleberries. If she wants violets, she has violets. See him
now, lookin' down at her through the branches. And see her, turnin' her
face up towards him. He's nigh upon addled. Shouldn't wonder this
minute, if he didn't know enough to keep his hold o' the branch. Does
that seem like our David, Mr. Lane, a bashful young feller like him?"

"Bashful or bold makes no difference," replied the old man. "Love'll go
where't is sent,--likely to hit one as t' other. And when they're hit,
you can't tell 'em apart.--Why, Joey," he continued, suddenly quickening
his tone, "there's the Doctor's boy, as I'm alive!"

Dr. Luce lived the other side of "the Crick." The young man coming along
the road was his son, just arrived home.

As he came nearer, I took notice of his dress. I usually did, when
people came from the city. He wore a black bombazine coat, white
trousers, white waistcoat, blue necktie, and a Panama hat. His
complexion was fair, with plenty of light hair waving about his temples.
He stepped briskly along, with shoulders set back, twirling his glove.

I knew Warren Luce well enough. I could tell just how it would strike
him, seeing David up in a