He laughed in a confused delighted way at her piquant, half saucy
manner as he watched her deft round arm and shapely hand.

"The farmers' wives in Oakville would say your hands were too little to
do much."

"They would?" and she raised her blue eyes indignantly to his. "No
matter, you are the one to say about that."

"I say they do too much. I shall have to get Jane to help you."

"By all means! Then you'll have more society."

"That was a home shot. You know how I dote on everybody's absence,
even Jane's."

"You dote on butter. See how firm and yellow it's getting. You
wouldn't think it was milk-white cream a little while ago, would you?
Now I'll put in the salt and you must taste it, for you're a
connoisseur."

"A what?"

"Judge, then."

"You know a sight more than I do, Alida."

"I'm learning all the time."

"So am I--to appreciate you."

"Listen to the sound of the rain and the water as it runs into the
milk-cooler. It's like low music, isn't it?"

Poor Holcroft could make no better answer than a sneeze.

"Oh-h," she exclaimed, "you're catching cold? Come, you must go right
upstairs. You can't stay here another minute. I'm nearly through."

"I was never more contented in my life."

"You've no right to worry me. What would I do if you got sick? Come,
I'll stop work till you go."

"Well then, little boss, goodbye."

With a half suppressed smile at his obedience Alida watched his
reluctant departure. She kept on diligently at work, but one might
have fancied that her thoughts rather than her exertions were flushing
her cheeks.

It seemed to her that but a few moments elapsed before she followed
him, but he had gone. Then she saw that the rain had ceased and that
the clouds were breaking. His cheerful whistle sounded reassuringly
from the barn, and a little later he drove up the lane with a cart.

She sat down in the kitchen and began sewing on the fine linen they had
jested about. Before long she heard a light step. Glancing up, she
saw the most peculiar and uncanny-looking child that had ever crossed
her vision, and with dismal presentiment knew it was Jane.

Chapter XXVIII.

Another Waif

It was indeed poor, forlorn little Jane that had appeared like a
specter in the kitchen door. She was as wet and bedraggled as a
chicken caught in a shower. A little felt hat hung limp over her ears;
her pigtail braid had lost its string and was unraveling at the end,
and her