As they turned David Eby stood before them, his expression a mingling of surprise and wonder. The flush on Phœbe's face, the awakened look in her eyes, troubled the man who had come through the corn and found the girl he loved standing with the preacher. The self-conscious look on the preacher's face assured David that he had stumbled through the field in an awkward moment, that his presence was unwelcome. He turned to go back, but Phœbe stepped quickly to him and took his hand. "Ah," thought Phares with a twinge of jealousy, "she wouldn't do that to me. How quickly she dropped her hand a while ago. They are such good friends, she and David. It's wrong to be envious; I must fight against it--and yet--I want her just as much as David does!" "David," Phœbe begged, "come back! Why, I was just wishing you were here! There's a scarlet tanager--see!" She pointed to the brilliant songster. "I thought he was coming to this woods so I came to hunt him," said David, his irritation gone. "I saw that fellow over by the tobacco field and followed him here. I bet they have their nest in this very woods. We'll look better next spring and try to find it and see the little ones. Tut, tut," he whistled to the bird, "don't sing your pretty head off." His eyes turned to the sky and the smile left his face. "It looks threatening," he said. "I thought I heard thunder as I came through the corn." "That so?" said Phares. "Then we better move in." Even as they turned and started through the field the thunder came again--distant--nearer, rolling in ominous rumbles. "Look at the sky," said David. "Clear yellow--that means hail!" "Oh, David"--Phœbe stood still and looked at him--"not hail on your tobacco!" He took her arm. "Come on, Phœbe, it's coming fast. We must get in. Come to our house, Phares, that's the nearest." Just as they reached the kitchen door, where Mother Bab was looking for them, the hail came. "It's hail, Mommie," David said. The three words held all the worry and pain of his heart. "Never mind"--the little mother patted his shoulder. "It's hail for more people than we know, perhaps for some who are much poorer than we are." "But the tobacco----" He stood by the window, impotent and weak, while the devastating hail pounded and rattled and smote the broad leaves of his tobacco and rendered it almost worthless. "Won't new leaves grow again?" Phœbe tried to cheer him. "Not this late in the summer. My tobacco was almost ready to be cut; it was unusually early this year." "Well," spoke up the preacher, "I can't see why you always plant tobacco. Smoking and chewing tobacco are filthy habits. I can't see why so many people of this section plant the weed when the soil could be used to produce some useful grain or vegetable."