"I--I--don't know," stammered Ellen, getting to her feet with embarrassment at having a love affair thrust so intimately upon her. "Mebbe. I must go back now to Tony an' the weedin'. When you get cleared up round here, there's plenty of mendin' to be done. You'll find that hamper full of stockin's to be darned." After Ellen had gone out, Lucy did not rise immediately from the table, but sat watching the clouds that foamed up behind the maples on the crest of the nearby hill. A glory of sunshine bathed the earth, and she could see the coral of the apple buds sway against the sky. It was no day to sit within doors and darn socks. All Nature beckoned, and to Lucy, used from birth to being in the open, the alluring gesture was irresistible. With sudden resolve she sprang up, cleared away the confused remnants of the meal before her, dashed to her room for a scarlet sweater, and fled into the radiant world outside. She followed the driveway until it joined the road, and then, after hesitating an instant, turned in the direction of the Howe farm. A mischievous light danced in her brown eyes, and a smile curved her lips. The road along which she passed was bordered on either side by walls of gray stone covered with shiny-leaved ivy and flanked by a checkerboard of pastures roughly dotted with clumps of hardback and boles of protruding rock. Great brakes grew in the shady hollows, and from the woods beyond came the cool, moist perfume of moss and ferns. The girl looked about her with delight. Then she began to sing softly to herself and jingle rhythmically the coins in her pocket. It was nearly a quarter of a mile to the Howes' gate, and by the time she reached it, her swinging step had given to her cheek a color that even the apple orchard could not rival. A quick tap on the knocker brought Mary Howe to the door. She was tall, angular, and short-sighted, and she stood regarding her visitor inquisitively, her forehead lined by a network of wrinkles. "Could you let me have a dozen eggs?" asked Lucy. Mary looked at the girl in waiting silence. "I am Miss Webster's niece," explained Lucy, with an appealing smile. "We live next door, you know. Aunt Ellen didn't seem to have any eggs to spare, so----" she stopped, arrested by Mary's expression. "Maybe you don't sell eggs," she ventured. "Yes, we do," Mary contrived to articulate, "but I don't know--I'm afraid----" She broke off helplessly in the midst of the disjointed sentence and, raising her voice, called: "Eliza, is Jane there?" "She's upstairs. I'll fetch her down," responded Eliza, coming to the door. "What is it?" "It's Miss Webster's niece askin' for eggs." "Miss Webster's niece! Ellen Webster's?" The explanation had in it an intonation of terror. "Yes." "My land, Mary! What shall we do? Martin will never----" the awed whisper ceased. "I'll call Jane," broke off Eliza hurriedly. Lucy heard the messenger speed across the floor and run up the stairs.