[Illustration: Slowly her right hand rose above her]

I mention this only to show that the hen and I had come to terms of
intimacy and mutual understanding. So when I saw Wills' dog catch and
kill her in the field one day, where she was hunting for grasshoppers, I
naturally entertained a feeling of resentment. I heard the cries of the
hen and ran through the orchard and witnessed the end of the tragedy and
more. Away down in the meadow I saw the dog and farther away "the Wills
boy," as we then called him, running toward his home. The dog had run
away as I approached and when I picked up the lifeless body of my little
friend the hills seemed to lift up their heads and fall upon me. Of
course that Wills boy had set the dog on her. I shall write no more of
that hour of trial. Such little things make history, and it is necessary
that the reader should understand me.

One June day of the next summer Uncle Peabody and I, from down in the
fields, saw a fine carriage drive in at our gate. He stopped and looked
intently.

"Jerusalem four-corners!" he exclaimed. "It's Mr. and Mrs. Horace
Dunkelberg."

My heart beat fast at thought of the legendary Dunkelbergs. Uncle looked
me over from top to toe. "Heavens!" he exclaimed. "Go down to the brook
and wash the mud off yer feet an' legs."

I ran for the brook and before I had returned to my uncle I heard the
horn blow.