"Cynthia, I can't find the hen-house key," she began; and then,
catching sight of Jim, she flushed a clear pink, while the little
brown mole ran a race with the dimple in her check.

"The key is on that nail beside the dried hops," returned Cynthia
sternly. "I found it in the lock last night and brought it in.
It's a mercy that the chickens weren't all stolen."

Without replying, Lila took down the key, strung it on her little
finger, and, going to the door, passed with Jim out into the
autumn sunshine. Her soft laugh pulsed back presently, and
Cynthia, hearing it, set her thin lips tightly as she carefully
rinsed the coffee-pot with soda.

Christopher, who had just come up to the wellbrink, where Tucker
sat feeding the hounds from a plate of scraps, gave an abrupt nod
in the direction of the lovers strolling slowly down the
hen-house path.

"It will end that way some day, I reckon," he said with a sigh,
"and you know I'm almost of a mind with Cynthia about it. It does
seem a downright pity. Not that Jim isn't a good chap and all
that, but he's an honest, hard-working farmer and nothing more--
and, good heavens! just look at Lila! Why, she's beautiful enough
to set the world afire."

Smiling broadly, Tucker tossed a scrap of cornbread into Spy's
open jaws; then his gaze travelled leisurely to the hen-house,
which Lila had just unlocked. As she pushed back the door there