do next for
food, because I owe Rufus and the hogs so much," I answered gratefully.

"What did you pay?" asked Bess, in a business-like tone of voice.

"Only a dollar and a quarter a bushel, all seed grade," answered Matthew,
with the greatest nonchalance, as if he had known the grades of wheat from
his earliest infancy.

"Why, Owen bought two bags of it for our joint family and paid such a
fortune for it that I forgot the figures immediately; but I took up the
rug and put it all in my dressing-room to watch over, lest thieves break
into the garage and steal. Also I made him send me plebeian carnations
instead of violets for Belle Proctor's dinner Tuesday," said Bess, with
covetousness in her eyes as she watched Matthew begin to unload his wheat.
I wonder what Matthew's man, Hickson, at one twenty-five a month, thought
of his master's coat when he began to brush the chaff out of its London
nap.

"Oh, Owen Murray is just a town-bred duffer," said Matthew, as he
shouldered his last sack of grain.

"Well, you are vastly mistaken if you think that--" Bess was beginning to
say in a manner that I knew from long experience would bring on a war of
words between her and Matthew when a large and cheerful interruption in the
shape and person of Aunt Mary Corn-tassel came around the corner of the
house.

"Well, well, what sort of city farming is going on to-day amongst all
these stylish folks?" she asked as she skirted the two cars at what she
considered a safe and respectful distance, and handed me a bunch of sweet
clover-pinks with a spring perfume that made me think of the breath of Pan
O'Woods as I buried my lips in them. "You, Polly, go right home and take
off that linen dress, get into a gingham apron, and begin to help Bud milk.
I believe in gavots at parties only if they strengthen muscles for milking
time."

"May I wait and ride down with Mr. Matthew and show him where to put our
wheat, Mother?" asked Polly as she snuggled up to her mother, who was
pinning a stray pink into Matthew's button-hole per his request.

"Yes, if he'll put his legs under old Mrs. Butter to help you get done
before I am ready to strain up," answered Aunt Mary, with a merry twinkle
in her eye as she regarded Matthew in his purple and fine linen. "Put an
apron on him," she added.

"Lead me to the apron," said Matthew, with real and not mock heroics.

"But before you go I want to tell all of you about an invitation that has
come over the