"We don't want it to grow, you goose. We want to try our fortunes."

"It was Peggy Morrison's plan," spoke out Clarice Vigo.

"It's an old English custom," declared Peggy, "as old as burning
brushwood."

"Would you like to observe this old English custom, Mademoiselle Zhone?"
questioned Angélique.

"Yes, let us hurry on."

"I think myself it would be charming." The instant Angélique thought
this, Peggy Morrison's plan lost foolishness, and gained in all eyes the
dignity of adventure. "But we have no hempseed."

"Yes, we have," responded Peggy. "Our Dinah is there outside the fence
with her lap full of it."

"And how do you sow it?"

"You scatter it and say, 'Hempseed, I sow thee,--hempseed, I sow thee;
let him who is to marry me come after me and mow thee.'"

An abashed titter ran through girlish Kaskaskia.

"And what happens then?"

"Then you look back and see somebody following you with a scythe."