Joan, lovelier to Kenny's eye than any blossom, seemed unaware of the
romance in the orchard. She was intent upon a man coming down the
orchard hill. Kenny sighed as he turned his eyes from her.

"It's Hughie," she said. "He's watched for you too since the letter
came. We all have. Hughie! Hughie!"

Hughie came toward them, sturdy, middle-aged and unpoetic for all his
head was under blossoms.

"Hughie!" called Joan. "It's Mr. O'Neill. He must have some supper.
Tell Hannah. And I'll go speak to Uncle Adam."

Romance flitted off through the twilight with her. Hungry, Kenny
embarked upon a reactive interval of common sense and followed Hughie,
who seemed inclined to talk of rain, to the kitchen door. It was past
the supper hour. Beyond in a huge, old-fashioned kitchen, yellow with
lamp light, Hughie's daughter, a ruddy-cheeked girl plump and wholesome
as an apple, was washing dishes. Kenny liked her. He liked the
shining kitchen. The wood was dark and old. He liked too the tiny
bird-like wife who trotted to the door at Hughie's call. Her hair was
white and scant, her skin ruddy, her eyes as small and black as berries.

Kenny made her his slave. He begged to eat in the kitchen.

Joan found him there a little later with everything in the pantry
spread before him. His voice, gay and charming, sounded as if he had
liked Hannah for a very long time. And Hannah's best lamp was on the
table. There was a pleasant undercurrent of excitement in the kitchen.