estlessly, his hands in his pockets. Rosemary
watched him, half afraid, though his mood was far from strange to her.
He was taller than the average man, clean-shaven, and superbly built,
with every muscle ready and even eager for use. His thirty years sat
lightly upon him, though his dark hair was already slightly grey at the
temples, for his great brown eyes were boyish and always would be. In
the half-light, his clean-cut profile was outlined against the sky, and
his mouth trembled perceptibly. He had neither the thin, colourless lips
that would have made men distrust him, nor the thick lips that would
have warned women to go slowly with him and to watch every step.

With obvious effort, he shook himself partially free of his mood. "What
do you hate?" he asked, gently.

"Brown alpaca, sassafras tea, the eternal dishes, the scrubbing, the
endless looking for dust where dust would never dare to stay, and--" She
paused, and bit her lips.

[Sidenote: Always Fighting]

"Might as well go on," he urged, with a smile.

"I can't. It isn't nice of me."

"But it's true. I don't know why you shouldn't hate your Grandmother and
your Aunt Matilda. I do. It's better to be truthful than nice."

"Is it?"

"Sincerity always has a charm of its own. Even when two men are
fighting, you are compelled to admire their earnestness and singleness
of purpose."

"I wish you lived where you could admire Grandmother and Aunt Matilda.
They're always fighting."

"No doubt. Isn't it a little early for sassafras tea?"

"I thought so, but Grandmother said Spring was coming early this year.
She feels it in her bones and she intends to be ready for it."

"She should know the signs of the seasons, if anyone does. How old is
she now?"

"Something past eighty."

"Suffering Moses! Eighty Springs and Summers and Autumns! Let me see--I
was only twenty when I began with the grapes. If I live to be eighty,
that means I've got to go to town sixty times to buy baskets, sell the
crop, and hire help--go through the whole process from Spring to frost
sixty times, and I've only done it ten times. Fifty more! And when the
imps who unwillingly learned their multiplication table from me are
grandparents on their own account, I'll still be saying: 'See the cat!
Can the cat run? Yes, the cat can run.'"

[Sidenote: Slaves of the Vineyard]

"Why don't you sell the vineyard?" she asked, though her heart sank at
the mere suggestion.

"Sell it? Why didn't