At last the houses began to be farther and farther apart, and the yards larger, and presently they found themselves back in the open country once more. The road was very much like the one by which they had approached the town, pleasant and shady, and with a tiny brook running along the side. Marjorie bent over the little stream to wash the grime of the city from her hands, and then stopped for a moment to splash the bright drops upon some thirsty flowers growing on the bank and leaning as far over as they could. While she was doing this, she heard the sound of a hammer close by, and, glancing around, she saw that she was near a farm-house with a large barn and sheds, and that a boy was busily nailing the pickets on to a fence, the frame of which stood a little way back from the road. Marjorie watched him for a few moments, admiring the evenness with which he placed the pickets, and the sure, firm blows of the hammer; at last, however, she began to grow uneasy. "Look," she said to the Dream, "see how close together he is nailing them. That isn't the right way. Why do you suppose he does it so? He's just spoiling the looks of his fence." "Probably he does it that way because he wants it that way," said the Dream carelessly. "But they don't look well that way, and it takes more pickets and more nails and a longer time." The Dream looked at the boy and the fence, critically. "It's not such a bad fence," he said, dryly; "and the boy looks fairly smart, doesn't he?--and he handles his tools as if he had built fences before. Perhaps he knows what he is about." "Y-e-s, he looks smart enough," agreed Marjorie; "but he is certainly making a mistake now, and I think I ought to tell him about it." "All right," said the Dream. "Go ahead." So Marjorie approached the boy, who stopped hammering and looked up at her pleasantly. "I thought that I would better tell you--" began Marjorie, somewhat embarrassed, "that--that--" she found it more difficult than she had expected, "--well, you see, you are making a mistake." "What do you mean?" asked the boy glancing along the trim row of palings. "Why, you are putting the pickets too close together," said Marjorie. "They don't look well that way, and they are too near the ground, besides. I was just speaking to my friend about it, and I thought that I ought to tell you, as well." "Thank you," said the boy, gravely; and then:--"Do you know what I am building this fence for?" "No-o," said Marjorie. "I supposed it was just--just a fence." "Well," said the boy, "a fence usually has some particular purpose; and, as a general thing, the person building it knows that purpose better than any one else, and just what sort of a fence is best in that especial case." Marjorie said nothing, and the boy went on. "I am fencing in a place for some white rabbits. Some of them are very small, and so I had to put the pickets near together and close to the ground. Do you see?"