“You didn’t know you had any,” she laughed. “Well, folks don’t usually until it is all lived through. I didn’t know I had any girlhood until I married and lost it.” “I haven’t lost anything,” said Joe, bewildered. “No; and I think you have got something—stand back, till I call you.” She went on, and Joe heard the two voices exchange a friendly “Good evening,” and then to escape his “story” climbed up the steep, green bank, and waited under a cherry tree. Cherry blossoms were not as pretty as apple blossoms, he meditated; it was queer how the blossoms would fall off, and the hard, green fruit come—but it always did, somehow. He wished Mrs. Evans would come back and take his hand again, making him feel ashamed and glad, and say, “Joe, you are going home with me. That man doesn’t want you, and I do.” And there he stood, not still, but first on one bare foot, and then on the other, and then he whistled; the stars shining down through the cherry blossoms were almost as kind as Beauty’s eyes, but they were so far off. The low voices talked on and on; at last, to the great relief of the boy who was waiting to know if anybody in the world wanted to own him, the man’s voice was raised in a cheerful: “Well, I’ll see Mr. Chris Tucker to-morrow, and make it right.” And, then, in her brisk way, Mrs. Evans called, “Come, Joe; it is all right.” The barefoot, ragged boy emerged out of the shade of the cherry limbs and went, faint-heartedly to answer the call. “Well, Joe,” welcomed the old man, unlatching the gate and throwing it wide open, “come in and stay with me awhile. I guess I want you and you want me.” But Joe begun to cry, and rub his eyes with the back of his dirty brown hand: “I am sixteen years old, and I am a stump of a thing, and will eat you out of house and home, and shan’t never amount to much.” “Tut, nonsense!” exclaimed the old man; “don’t you like to work?” “I never did nothing else; I don’t like nothing else,” replied Joe, dropping his hand, somewhat reassured. “Who said you are sixteen? Come in and let me have a look at you.” Joe stepped inside the gate; kind, strong hands drew him within the light that streamed from the kitchen windows and open door. “Good night, Joe,” said Mrs. Evans. “Good night,” said Joe. He had not learned how to say “thank you.” “They said so,” he replied to the latest question. “Those men. The Tucker twins. They are seventy, and hale old fellows. I’ll warrant you know how to work. You are not fourteen. You shall do a boy’s work and _be_ a boy. You _may_ grow to be as tall as old Christopher himself. There’s plenty of man-timber in you. Now come and see what the women-folks will say to you.” Joe shrank back. “I thought I was going to live with you.” “And you thought I lived alone like the other old men? I’m a miserable old bachelor, but I’ve got plenty of women-folks, thank the Lord.” A little girl rushed to the door, and a barking Scotch terrier made a spring at the new-comer.