with a long brown towel that hung at hand! and how he howled! while
Kate exploded with laughter, in spite of her struggles to keep quiet.

"He _is_ the dre'fullest boy!" whined Mrs. Tucker. "Melindy tells
how he sassed you 'tother day, Mr. Greene. I shall hev to tewtor that
boy; he's got to hev the rod, I guess!"

I bade Mrs. Tucker good night, for Kate was already out of the door,
and, before I knew what she was about, had taken a by-path in sight of
the well; and there, to be sure, sat Melindy, on a prostrate
flour-barrel that was rolled to the foot of the big apple-tree,
twirling her fingers in pretty embarrassment, and held on her insecure
perch by the stout arm of George Bemont, a handsome brown fellow,
evidently very well content just now.

"Pretty,--isn't it?" said Kate.

"Very,--quite pastoral," sniffed I.

We were sitting round the open door an hour after, listening to a
whippoorwill, and watching the slow moon rise over a hilly range just
east of Centreville, when that elvish little "week! week!" piped out
of the wood that lay behind the house.

"That is hopeful," said Kate; "I think Melindy and George must have
tracked the turkeys to their haunt, and scared them homeward."

"George--who?" said Peggy.

"George Bemont; it seems he is--what is your Connecticut