"Mrs. Jones thinks it is. She feels that we are flattered by the preference her offspring show for our society; but between ourselves, Cleena, I think it's more raisin-bread than affection. You made a dire mistake in beginning to feed them." "An' isn't it I that knows it? Now, this baby--" "Yes, that baby. What's happened to him? He's spotted white and black, like a coach-dog. What's he licking from his fingers?" "It's spoilin' the bakin' o' bread is he the day. Takin' the coals from the bucket, each by each, an' pressin' them deep in that beautiful dough. Will I wash his face, eh? Never a wash I wash, but home to his mother he goes the same as he is. If the sight does not shame her, I'd know." "I'll take him, Cleena, and I'll bring back the milk for the day." So with her pail in one hand and the other guiding the still uncertain steps of William Gladstone, Amy started. "It's a pity, Sir William, it really is a pity that you ever learned how to climb. You've progressed so alarmingly. First time you tried it you could only stumble and fall backward. Now--you hitch along famously. Heigho! here's Victoria. All the high personages of Merrie England are honoring us 'the day.' Well, Victoria Regina, what's the errand now?" "Nothing, only thought I'd tell you about that old Quaker man you like." "Everybody likes. What about him?" "He's gone away. Ma says he won't never live to come back again." "Victoria--Jones, what are you saying?" "That Mr. Quaker Burn, up Clove way, had been took to Ne' York." "I guess you're mistaken. We would have heard about it if it were so. Now, if you please, though, I should like Master Gladstone to be 'took' home. If you'll hold his other hand we'll get him there the quicker." "I guess I'll go up and set a spell; you take him," remarked Victoria, and turned to ascend the slope. Amy sighed: "Something must be done to stop this!" Then she lifted her eyes and scanned the white dusty road which circled Bareacre knoll, and across which lay the Jones's cottage. A wagon was driving leisurely along this highway, and it had a most familiar appearance. A moment's watching showed it to belong to the Clove Farm, and it was Adam Burn's "hired man" who was driving in it. Her heart sank. What if Victoria had spoken the truth? So she hurried her young charge to his home, and waiting only to have her pail filled with the milk, ran back to intercept the approaching vehicle. "Good morning, Israel. How's dear old Adam?" "Only the Lord knows. Sarah Jane's got him." "She hasn't! Don't tell me!" "But she has, though." "Where?" "York." "When?" "Yesterday." "Why?" "Same old story. If she hadn't gone to Europe, she'd had him last year. I knew how 'twould be when she come home this summer an' begun to send him the letters. She's the powerfulest hand to do her duty that ever was. Everything else has to give way." Amy's hand trembled so that her milk began to trickle over the sides of her pail.