As if by mutual consent the owners of the rejected cattle slowly departed. They had awaited the outcome of the Sands-Chester transaction rather from curiosity than any doubt as to the result.

Oliver Sands was an upright Friend. He was, also, locally known as a "slick trader." What he set out to do he generally did. Moreover, though he dwelt in a plainly furnished farmhouse, his farm comprised the richest acres of the table-land crowning the mountain, and his flocks and herds were the largest in the county. His flour mill did a thriving business. Some said that its thrift was due, in part, to the amount of toll extracted from his neighbors' grists; but this, of course, was a heresy unproved. Nor did many of even these disgruntled folk grumble openly. They dared not. Oliver "held them in his hand," as the saying went, having mortgages upon almost all the smaller farms adjacent to his own—intent upon sometime adding them to his, at that dreaded day when he should see fit to "foreclose."

With the miller's departure from the scene the horse-owners had their chance, and took it promptly; but the prices asked for the several steeds which were now "put through their paces" were far and away beyond the balance left in the Chesters' power to pay. Therefore, short work was made of this part of the memorable sale and the grounds were rapidly deserted of nearly all.

Bill Barry lingered to the last, and finding himself still unsuccessful, relieved his disappointment by a parting fling:

"Well, neighbor, after all I dunno as you will need a hoss—ary kind of one, seein's you've got Hannah! That creatur's a repytation for speed 'at puts my sorrel here out of the runnin'. Lively, Hannah is, an' no mistake. Old Olly's head's leveler than this mountain-side, even if his mouth is mealier 'n his own flour bags. Well, good-day. If you shouldn't get suited, lemme know. I'll drive right up."

The silence that fell upon Skyrie then seemed intense, but most delightful; and for a few moments all its household felt the need of rest. They sat without speaking, for a time, till a low from the barnyard reminded them that their "family" had increased and might need attention. Who was to give it?

With a smile, half of vexation, mother Martha suddenly exclaimed:

"We've begun at the wrong end of things! 'Put the cart before the horse.' We needed a pig, a cow, a horse, and a man. Well, the man should have been our first to secure. Then he could have looked after the other things. Oh! hum! What a day this has been!"

"Yes. Country life does seem to be rather exciting," agreed Mr. Chester, idly poking the end of his crutch among the weeds along the wide stone where his chair had been placed. "A lawsuit, a stock-sale, and an introduction to 'Society'—all in one morning."

"But we didn't get the horse!" said Dorothy C., who liked matters to be completely finished, once they had been undertaken; and whose fancy had been unduly stirred by the sight of Bucephalus. She had then and there decided that she, too, would become a finished equestrian as soon as possible; though she had seen none among the horses just exhibited that compared with Herbert's mount.

"The horse can wait," returned Mrs. Chester, in a tone of relief. "Yet, for your sake, John, it should have been our first purchase."

"After that necessary 'man,' my dear!"

But Mrs. Chester was in no mood for joking. The reaction from excitement had set in, and she let her husband's jest fall to the ground where it belonged. If only that unfortunate advertisement had done the same! They would not then have been so annoyed by an overflow of traders nor been rendered the laughing-stock of the community. Besides it was now past noon and dinner must be prepared; so she rose to go indoors, suggesting to Dorothy:

"It might be well to see if Hannah and the calf need water. You can take that old pail I use to scrub from and carry them a drink. Take but a half-pailful at a time. You're too young to lift heavy things, yet."

"All right: but, mother, that generous old man didn't say what the calf's name was. And isn't Hannah the oddest for—a cow? Real Quakerish it sounds to me. What shall you name your dear little pig? May I call my darling calf Jewel? Just to think! I never, never dreamed I should have a real live little calf for my very, very own!"

"May your Jewel prove a diamond of the first water!" cried father John, always sympathetic.

But mother Martha was carefully counting the contents of her depleted pocket-book and her tone was rather sharp as she answered:

"It's a poor pig that can't live without a name: and—I'm afraid that old Quaker gentleman was not—was not quite so generous as he seemed. A calf requires milk. A calf that 'runs with its mother' generally gets it; and——" She paused so long that her husband added:

"What becomes of the family that owns the calf? Is that what you were thinking, my dear? No matter! So long as that lowing mother and child were not cruelly 'separated' everything is right. May I come and peel the potatoes for you?"

For helpless to do great things for his household the crippled man had insisted upon his right to do small ones; but it always hurt his wife's pride to see her once stalwart husband doing "woman's work," so he never attempted it without permission.

This time she nodded consent, and promptly brought him a basin of them, while she sat down to shell a measure of pease procured that morning from a passing huckster. She felt that they could talk as they worked, and indeed there was much to discuss. Until her return everything had been absorbed by Dorothy's fortunes; and even still it was thought of Dorothy which lay closest to both their hearts.

"But Dolly brought down to a real bread-and-butter basis! We are compelled to make our living and hers out of this run-down farm. Now, how to begin? Shall I sit by the roadside and ask every man who passes by if he wants to hire himself out 'on shares'? Or will you risk another advertisement, compounded by yourself?" inquired Mr. Chester. "Help we must have."

"Yes, we must. If I could only get hold of some of the strong, idle, colored men loafing the streets of Baltimore! They, or he, would be just what we need."

"Maybe not, my dear. In any case we haven't one, nor time to import one. Probably he would be discontented if we got one. We'll have to depend on 'local talent' and—hear that cow 'Moo!' Sounds as if she were homesick."

"Poor thing! probably she is. I am—a little, myself," returned mother Martha, rising to put her vegetables on to boil. "Also, I consider that we have accomplished sufficient for one morning. Let's rest on it and wait what may turn up; fortunately Hannah can live upon grass—the whole farm is grass, or weeds——"

"And the calf can live upon Hannah! My dear, country life is making you a philosopher: and here comes our girl as ready for her dinner as I am. I'll take a bit of a nap while she sets the table, and the sooner I'm called to it the better. No trouble with our appetites since we came to Skyrie," rejoined the ex-postman, crossing to the lounge and settling himself, not for the "nap" he had mentioned but to best consider that farming question, almost a hopeless one to him.

The afternoon passed quietly, varied by frequent visits on the part of mother Martha and Dorothy to their respective possessions of live stock, tethered by the barn. All seemed going well. Hannah had ceased to low and lay upon the grass contentedly chewing her cud, while her festive offspring gamboled around as far as its rope-length would permit.

As for the unnamed pig, it had rooted for itself a soft muddy bed, and from having been well fed, earlier in the day, was contented to lie and slumber in the sunshine.

Contemplation of the creatures gave Martha great pleasure, till Dorothy suddenly propounded the question:

"Who's going to milk Hannah? That nice Quaker man said 'twice a day,' and 'ten quarts at a time.'"

For a moment Mrs. Chester did not answer; then she looked up and, as if in reply to her own perplexity, beheld Jim Barlow.

"O my lad! Never anybody more welcome. You can milk, of course?"

"Yes, ma'am, I should say so. Mis' Calvert she sent me over to see if you needed anything. She said as how none your folks was used to farmin' and she's got a right smart o' curiosity over how you came out with your advertisement. More'n that, here's a letter she had Ephraim fetch up-mounting, when he druv down for her mail. She said I was to tell you 't all your letters could be put with her'n if you wanted; so's to save you or Dorothy walking way to the office."

"All our letters won't be many and she is very kind. Please thank her for us and tell her that—that—Jim, would you like to change 'bosses' and come to work for us at Skyrie?" asked Mrs. Chester with sudden inspiration.

"No, ma'am, I wouldn't," answered the lad, with unflattering promptness. "I mean—you know——"

"Oh! don't try to smooth that over, pray. It was a mere thought of mine, knowing how fond you were, or seemed to be, of our girl. But, of course, you wouldn't. The comforts and conveniences of our little home can't compare with Deerhurst. Only——" said the lady, somewhat sarcastically, and on the point of adding: "It's better than Miranda Stott's." But she left her sentence unfinished and it was kinder so.

Poor Jim saw that he had offended. Even Dorothy's brown eyes had flashed, perceiving her mother's discomfiture, but though his face flushed to find himself thus misunderstood he did not alter, nor soften, his decision. He merely stated the case as he regarded it:

"If I could make two of myself I'd be glad to. I'd just admire to take hold this job an' clear the weeds an' rubbidge offen Skyrie. Not 't I think it'll ever be wuth shucks—for farmin': the land's all run to mullein an' stun. But I could make it a sight better 'n it is an' it might grow plenty of them posies Dorothy's so tickled with. If it could be stocked now—Mis' Stott used to say that keepin' lots o' cattle was to be looked at both ways; what they leave on the land in manure fetches it up, an' what they eat offen it fetches it down. She kep' more calves an' yearlin's than 'peared like she'd ought to, but she raised a power of stuff for market, 'count of 'em. If I was you folks I'd put my money into yearlin's fust thing," said this young farmer, rendered talkative by his novel position as adviser.

Dorothy was disgusted. This didn't seem like the old, subservient Jim she was familiar with and she disliked his plainness of speech. She improved the occasion by calling his attention to Jewel:

"See my calf? That's my very own! She was a present to me this very day, Jim Barlow, and I've named her Jewel. Maybe, though, I'll change that to 'Daisy.' I've read stories where cows were called 'Daisies,' and she'll be a cow sometime, and I shall sell her milk to get money."

"Pshaw! Looks like good stock, that calf does; 's if 't might make a nice steer, but 'twon't never be a cow to give milk. 'Tain't that kind of a calf; and after all, raisin' young cattle is a power of work. They run over fences an' fall into hollers, an' Mis' Stott she used to say, sometimes, she didn't know but they did eat their own heads off; meanin' their keep cost more than they was wuth—time they was ready for killin'. If I was you, Dorothy, I'd fat that calf up, quick's I could, then sell him to the butcher for veal," further advised this practical youth.

"O you horrid boy! You—you—I never saw anybody who could dash cold water on people's happiness as you can! You—you're as hateful as you can be!" cried Dorothy, venting all her disappointment in anger against him.

Now it happened that that same morning, at Seth Winters's office, the untutored farm boy had seen and envied the ease of manner with which handsome Herbert Montaigne had won his way into the favor of Mrs. Calvert and had instantly made friends with Dorothy. Then and there, something sharp and bitter had stolen into Jim's big heart and had sent him speeding out of sight—eager to hide himself and his uncouthness from these more fortunate folk, whose contrast to himself was so painful. Dorothy—why, even Dorothy—had, apparently, been captivated by the dashing Herbert to the utter neglect of her former friend; and, maybe, that was what had hurt the most. Incipient jealousy had stung Jim's nobler nature and now made him say with unconscious wistfulness:

"I'm sorry, girlie. You—you didn't think so—always."

The girl had turned her back upon him, in her indignation, but at the altered tone she faced about, while a swift recollection of all that she owed to him sent the tears to her eyes and her to clasp her arms about his neck and kiss him soundly, begging:

"O Jim! forgive me! I didn't mean—I forgot. You never can be horrid to me. I don't like to have my things made fun of—I never was given a calf before—I—Kiss me, Jim Barlow, and say you do!"

To the bashful lad this outburst was more painful than jealousy. His face grew intensely red and he did not return the kiss. On the contrary he very promptly removed her clinging arms, with his protesting:

"Pshaw! What ails you, Dorothy?"

Then he forced himself to look towards Mrs. Chester and to return to the real business of the moment. Fortunately, that lady was not even smiling. She was too accustomed to her child's impulsiveness to heed it, and she had resolved to act upon the principle that "half a loaf is better than no bread." In other words, she would improve this chance of getting some fit quarters for the pig, which had roused and begun to make its presence evident. She scarcely even heard Jim's attempted explanation:

"You see, Mis' Chester, 'twas Mis' Calvert that took me up an' set out to make a man of me. I disappointed her fust time she trusted me, and I've got to stay long enough to show I ain't so wuthless as I seemed. I've got to. More'n that, the gardener she's had so long is so old an' sot in his ways he don't get more'n half out the soil 't he'd ought to. I'm goin' to show him what Maryland folks can do! That truck o' his'n? Why, bless your heart, he couldn't sell it to Lexington Market, try his darnedest: nor Hollins', nor Richmond, nor even Ma'sh Market—where poor folks buy. Huh! No, I can't leave. But I'll come work for you-all every minute I can get, without neglectin' Mis' Calvert."

"O Jim! That's lovely of you, but you mustn't do that. It would be too great a sacrifice. You planned to study every minute you were not working or sleeping, and you must. It's your chance. You must, Jim dear. You know you're to be President—or something big—and you're to make me very, very proud of you. Some way, somebody will be found,—to farm poor Skyrie!" returned Dorothy, eagerly, yet unable to resist the last reproach.

"Now, Mis' Chester, I can, an' ought, to get that pig into a pen 'fore dark. Is there any old lumber 'round, 't you can spare?" asked the lad, rolling up his blouse sleeves, preparatory to labor.

"There's an old dog-churn in the cellar, that Alfaretta Babcock knocked to pieces the time——"

"Speaking of Babcock, ma'am, that is my name: and I've come to hire out," said a queer unknown voice, so near and so suddenly that mother Martha screamed; then having whirled about to see whence the voice came, screamed again.