"For which truth I am devoutly thankful. I imagine that instead of a week, as Mr. Yocomb said, it would require a lifetime to get acquainted with some women. I wish my mother had lived. I'm sure that she would have been a continuous revelation to me. I know that she had a great deal of sorrow, and yet my most distinct recollection of her is her laugh. No earthly sound ever had for me so much meaning as her laugh. I think she laughed when other people would have cried. There's a tone in your laugh that has recalled to me my mother again and again this afternoon."

"I hope it is not a source of pain," she said gently.

"Far from it," I replied. "Memories of my mother give me pleasure, but I rarely meet with one to whom I would even think of mentioning her name."

"I do not remember my mother," she said sadly.

"Come," I resumed hastily, "you admit that you have been dull and lonely to-day. Look at that magnificent glow in the west. So a.s.suredly ended in brightness the lives of those we loved, however clouded their day may have been at times. This June evening, so full of glad sounds, is not the time for sad thoughts. Listen to the robins, to that saucy oriole yonder on the swaying elm-branch. Beyond all, hear that thrush.

Can you imagine a more delicious refinement of sound? Let us give way to sadness when we must, and escape from it when we can. I would prefer to continue up this shady lane, but it may prove too shadowy, and so color our thoughts. Suppose we return to the farmyard, where Mr. Yocomb is feeding the chickens, and then look through the old garden together.

You are a country woman, for you have been here a week; and so I shall expect you to name and explain everything. At any rate you shall not be blue any more to-day if I can prevent it. You see I am trying to reward your self-sacrifice in letting me stay till to-morrow."

"You are so considerate that I may let you remain a little longer."

"What is that fable about the camel? If he once gets his head in--"

"He next puts his foot in it, is the sequel, perhaps," she replied, with the laugh that was becoming to me like a refrain of music that I could not hear too often.

CHAPTER IX

"OLD PLOD"

"Emily Warren, why does thee bring Richard Morton back so soon?" asked Mr. Yocomb, suspending for a moment the sweep of his hand that was scattering grain.

"You are mistaken, sir," I said; "I brought Miss Warren back. I thought she would enjoy seeing you feed the poultry, the horses, and especially the cows."

"Thee's more self-denying than I'd a been," he resumed, With his humorous twinkle. "Don't tell mother, but I wouldn't mind taking a walk with Emily Warren myself on a June evening like this."

"I will take a walk with you whenever you wish," laughed Miss Warren; "but I'll surely tell Mrs. Yocomb."

"Oh! I know I'd get found out," said the old man, shaking his head ruefully; "I always do."

"I'm sure you would if Miss Warren were here," I added. "I'm at a loss to know how early in the day she found me out."

"Well, I guess thee's a pretty square sort of a man. If thee'd been stealing sheep Emily Warren wouldn't laugh at thee so approvingly. I'm finding out that she rather likes the people she laughs at. At least, I take that view, for she laughs at me a great deal. I knew from Emily Warren's laugh that thee hadn't anything very bad to tell mother."

"I admit that, at the time, I enjoyed being laughed at--a rather rare experience."

"You needn't, either of you, plume yourselves that you are irresistibly funny. I laugh easily. Mr. Yocomb, why do you feed the chickens so slowly? I have noticed it before. Now Reuben and Hiram, the man, throw the corn all down at once."

"They are in more of a hurry than I am. I don't like to do anything in a hurry, least of all to eat my dinner. Now, why should these chickens, turkeys and ducks gobble everything right down? The corn seems to taste good to them; so, after a handful, I wait till they have had a chance to think how good the last kernel was before they get another. You see I greatly prolong their pleasure."

"And in these intervals you meditate on Thanksgiving Day, I suppose,"

she said.

"Emily Warren, thee's a good Yankee. I admit that that young gobbler there did suggest a day on which I'm always very thankful, and with good reason. I had about concluded before thee came that, if we were both spared--i.e., that gobbler and I--till next November, I would probably survive him."

"How can you have the heart to plan against that poor creature's life so coolly? See how he turns his round, innocent eyes toward you, as if in grat.i.tude. If he could know that the hand that feeds him would chop off his head, what a moral shock he would sustain! That upturned beak should be to you like a reproachful face."

"Emily Warren, we expect thee to eat thy Thanksgiving dinner with us; and that young gobbler will probably be on the table. Now what part of him will thee take on that occasion?"

"A piece of the breast, if you please."

"Richard Morton, is not Emily Warren as false and cruel as I am?"

"Just about."

"Is thee not afraid of her?"

"I would be if she were unfriendly."

"Oh, thee thinks everybody in this house is friendly. Emily Warren, thee must keep up our good name," he added, with a mischievous nod toward her.

"Mr. Yocomb, you are forgetting the chickens altogether. There are some staid and elderly hens that are going to bed in disgust, you have kept them waiting so long."

"See how quick they'll change their minds," he said, as he threw down a handful of corn. "Now isn't that just like a hen?" he added, as they hastened back.

"And just like a woman also, I'm sure you want to suggest," said Miss Warren.

"I suppose thee never changes thy mind."

"I'm going to change the subject. Poultry with their feathers on don't interest me very much. The male birds remind me of a detestable cla.s.s of conceited men, that one must see daily in the city, whose gallantry is all affectation, and who never for a moment lose sight of themselves or their own importance. That strutting gobbler there, Mr. Morton, reminds me of certain eminent statesmen whom your paper delights to honor, and I imagine that that ridiculous creature embodies their idea of the American eagle. Then the hens have such a simple, unthinking aspect. They act as if they expected to be crowed over as a matter of course; and thus typify the followers of these statesmen, who are so pre-eminent in their own estimation. Their exalted perches seem to be awarded unquestioningly."

"So you think, Miss Warren, that I have the simple, unthinking aspect typified by the physiognomy of these hens?"

"Mr. Morton, I was generalizing. We always except present company.

Remember, I disagree with your paper, not you; but why you look up to these human species of the gobbler is something I can't understand, and being only a _woman_, that need not seem strange to you."

"Since I must tell you the truth on all occasions, _nolens volens_, you have hit on a subject wherein I differ from my paper. Human phases of the gobbler are not pleasant."

"But the turkey phase _is, very_," said Mr. Yocomb, throwing a handful of corn down before his favorite, which, like certain eminent statesmen, immediately looked after his own interests.

"Mr. Yocomb, please, let me help you feed the horses," said Miss Warren, leading the way into the barn, where on one side were mows for hay and grain, and, on the other, stalls for several horses. The sleek and comfortable animals seemed to know the young girl, for they thrust out their black and brown noses toward her and projected their ears instead of laying them back viciously, as when I approached; and one old plow-horse that had been much neglected, until Miss Warren began to pet him, gave a loud ecstatic whinny.

"Oh, you big, honest old fellows!" she exclaimed, caressing one and another, "I'd rather teach you than half my pupils."

"In which half do you place me?" I asked.

"You? oh, I forgot; I was to teach you topography. I will a.s.sign you by and by, after you have had a few lessons."

"A man ought to do as well as a horse, so I hope to win your favor."

"I wish all men did as well as Mr. Yocomb's horses. They evidently feel they have the family name and respectability to keep up. Mr. Yocomb, what is it that smells so sweetly?"

"That is the red-top clover we cut last week."