Jimmy’s rollicking laugh floated across the lawn. Peg Morrison had stacked the last wheelbarrow with the sweet lawn grass, topped it with the little boy, and was trundling his load toward the house with great pretence of exhaustion. “Now’t I’ve got you aboard, Cap’n,” Barbara heard him saying, “it’s all I c’n make out. You’re turrible big an’ hefty.” “You won’t ask me to leave him, David?” murmured Barbara. “I couldn’t do that; unless—” she added with quick remembrance—“I am forced to.” “Little beggar!” quoth David good-humoredly; “he’s always been a dangerous rival of mine. But I’ll take him for a side partner this time, Barbara. How’ll that suit you?” He turned and crushed her roughly in his arms. “I’ve waited long enough,” he said, “now let everybody and everything get out of my way; I’m going to marry you within the month,” and stopped the words of protest on her lips with his kisses. That same evening Martha Cottle wandered forth under the soft light of the rosy evening. She was dressed in a full-skirted gown of lilac calico, sprigged with white, and starched to rustling stiffness; over it flowed the wide expanse of a freshly ironed white apron. The labors of the day were concluded and Miss Cottle felt herself attuned to the soft influences of the hour. So when she chanced to come upon Peleg Morrison reposing himself in a battered wooden chair tipped against the barn door, she addressed him in terms of surprising amity. “It’s a real pleasant evening,” observed Miss Cottle, with an agreeable smile. “Yes, ma’am, it sure is,” replied Peg, in kind. In deference to the lady he shook the ashes out of his pipe, and rose from his chair. “I suppose you and I’ll soon be left in charge here,” continued Miss Cottle, sighing. “For my part, I dr-read the responsibility.” “Hes—Miss Barb’ry heard f’om——” “No; not that I know of. And I call it strange—very str-range. Don’t you, Mr. Morrison?” Peg removed his hat and thoughtfully fumbled the scanty locks behind his ears. “‘Tis kind o’ queer; that’s so,” he agreed. Miss Cottle bent forward, her lean features quivering with emotion. “And to cap the climax,” she said, “the girl’s gone and engaged herself to be married.” “Who? Not Miss Barb’ry?” Miss Cottle nodded confirmation. “To that young Whitcomb fellow,” she concluded acidly. Mr. Morrison resumed his hat, pulling it low over his eyes. From this familiar shelter he viewed his informant cautiously. “Did she—did Miss Barb’ry tell you? Mebbe she wouldn’t care to hev me know.” “She didn’t choose to make a confidant of me,” the spinster said, tossing her head. “I chanced to be passing through the hall, and I—overheard ’em—spooning.” Mr. Morrison coughed deprecatingly. “It’s a vallable idee,” he said slowly, “not t’ hear what you ain’t meant t’ hear. Young Whitcomb—huh? Wall! Wall!” XV