Out among the oaks on the hillside, he sat down in the shade. Before him lay a wooded slope that fell rapidly to the winding ribbon of the lane. Beyond the lane, over the inch-wide railroad track and the rugged little creek, rose other slopes, bare and smooth and round. Upon them, glistening red-and-white specks against the wonderful velvety brown, went cattle. And there was borne to him from across the valley the faint, sweet tinkle of a bell. “It’s like a Keith canvas,” he said, looking at the great, low-branched oaks with their horny trunks and tufts of mistletoe. He lay back, his head on his hat, his eyes shut. Here was rest indeed! The _gobble, gobble, gobble_ of an angry turkey-cock disturbed the quiet. He sat up, watching to the left, where, through a break in the woods, could be seen the long, regular rows of a hillside vineyard. Something was moving at its edge--a woman. He rose to his feet. Even at that distance he could see that she was young and dark, and dressed in something light and simple. She was swinging a hat by one hand; the other held a leafy branch; and with hat and branch, she shooed forward into the woods a small band of bronze-coloured turkeys. The birds came straight toward him, and made a pretty sight as they advanced, little and big together, now scattering in an eager search through the grass, now rushing together over some loudly announced find. Behind them, directing their way, walked the turkey-girl. She approached so slowly that Austin sat down again. Presently, he heard her singing, though he could not distinguish the words or the tune. Through the song, punctuating it, sounded the piercing crescendo of young turkeys, _cheep, cheep, cheep_. Then, song and words became audible; but not understandable, for the approaching herder was singing in Italian. “The daughter of the farmer,” concluded Austin. Then, “Why, I declare!” For she was close at hand now, a slender, pliant figure that took the steep path lightly, and he marked, almost in bewilderment, the beauty of the girl: her small head set upon a graceful brown throat; her black hair, crisply curling at the temples; hazel eyes, heavy-lashed, that suggested the yellow pansies he had seen sunning themselves along the lane; a straight, delicate nose; and a sweet mouth, brilliantly touched with scarlet. The mother-birds saw him now and divided to pass, uttering startled warnings. She, too, caught sight of him, and stopped short, covering her surprise by giving a tardy gobbler an energetic brush with her hat. Then she looked at him with unconcealed interest and curiosity. He took off his hat, at which the turkeys gave way in renewed fear. “Good-morning,” he said, pleasantly. “Good-morning,” she answered, speaking without a trace of foreign accent. Then, waving branch and hat, she passed on, replying to his smile timidly.