“It don’t do any harm,” he said equably; and she was a little disappointed, had expected flattery. She pointed to the machine, whose engine still racketed. “What’s that?” “A duster,” he told her. “Kills the bugs on the trees.” She made a grimace. “I should think it would. But what a nasty way to do. Smother them with that dust.” He did smile this time. “The dust’s poison,” he explained. “It sticks to the leaves, and they eat it with the leaves, and it kills them.” “Why?” she asked. He understood that she was interested not in the process but the reason for it. “So they won’t hurt the trees; so the trees will bear better,” he told her. “Papa doesn’t do that to our trees,” she said. He turned away, and she thought he smiled. “That’s right,” he agreed. She looked around her. “And there are lots more apples on your trees than on ours, too.” “That’s because I dust ’em and spray ’em and take care of them,” he said. “You’ve got to treat an apple tree right if you want it to bear right.” She came gingerly to his side and inspected the duster and asked questions about it, wrinkling her nose at the smell of the dust; and he answered her questions, warming a little at her interest in that which was dear to him. She perceived that she pleased him, and pretended even greater interest, and smiled at him in her most charming fashion. Turned from the machine to the trees about them, plucked an apple and bit into it and threw it away with a grimace. His engine still coughed and barked; he showed no disposition to shut off its ignition and give his time to her. She discovered a waxy bandage upon one of the trees and asked what it was and he told her it was a graft, and would have added some explanation, but her attention flitted elsewhere. “Where do you live?” she asked presently. “That house up there?” “Yes.” “Is it your house?” “My mother’s and mine,” he replied. She turned the full battery of her eyes upon him. “Why haven’t you come up to see a fellow?” she asked. “I’ve been awfully lonesome here.” He was not at all disconcerted, as she had expected him to be. “I hadn’t thought of it,” he said. “I’m pretty busy.” “You’ll think of it now, won’t you?” she begged prettily. She was, this morning, in a reckless mood; she had been, was still, a spoiled child. “I might,” he assented, and she thought again there was a smile deep hidden in his eyes. “I’m used to having boys crazy to come and see me,” she said wistfully; and he did smile; and she was satisfied with this much of victory, and turned and ran away. She ran prettily, and she knew her skirts were none too long. From the border of the orchard, she looked back and lifted her hand to him. He touched his hat in a restrained fashion by way of response; and she ascended the hill, at peace with the world again. And this was the first encounter between the tender of trees and Lucia Moore. II