know what you'll think."

"I think," declared Mr. Jeminy, looking up at the sky, "I think--why, I
think this wet weather will pass, Anna Barly. Yes, to-morrow will be
cold and clear."

Anna did not answer him. She was tired; she had played, she had cried,
now she wanted to rest.

In Frye's General Store, Mr. Frye and Mr. Crabbe were disputing a game
of checkers. They sat opposite each other, stared at the checkerboard,
and stroked their chins. Farmer Barly stood watching them. He puffed
on his pipe, and nodded his head at every move. But all the while he
was thinking about Anna. "Pretty near time she was settling down," he
thought.

Mr. Frye jumped over two, and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied
smile. The hops of his own men put him into the best of humor. It was
not that he wanted to win; he only wanted to do all the jumping. "Let
me do the taking," he would have said, "and you can do the winning."
When Mr. Crabbe hopped over three in a row, Mr. Frye became gloomy. He
felt that Mr. Crabbe was getting all the pleasure. "You're too spry
for me," he said. "You're like a flea. Well. . . ."

"It's your turn, Mr. F.," said Mr. Crabbe.

Mr. Frye looked at the board with distaste. There were no more jumps
for him to make. He pushed a round black checker forward.

"There you are," he said.