into the garage and steal. Also I made him send me plebeian carnations
instead of violets for Belle Proctor's dinner Tuesday," said Bess, with
covetousness in her eyes as she watched Matthew begin to unload his wheat.
I wonder what Matthew's man, Hickson, at one twenty-five a month, thought
of his master's coat when he began to brush the chaff out of its London
nap.

"Oh, Owen Murray is just a town-bred duffer," said Matthew, as he
shouldered his last sack of grain.

"Well, you are vastly mistaken if you think that--" Bess was beginning to
say in a manner that I knew from long experience would bring on a war of
words between her and Matthew when a large and cheerful interruption in the
shape and person of Aunt Mary Corn-tassel came around the corner of the
house.

"Well, well, what sort of city farming is going on to-day amongst all
these stylish folks?" she asked as she skirted the two cars at what she
considered a safe and respectful distance, and handed me a bunch of sweet
clover-pinks with a spring perfume that made me think of the breath of Pan
O'Woods as I buried my lips in them. "You, Polly, go right home and take
off that linen dress, get into a gingham apron, and begin to help Bud milk.
I believe in gavots at parties only if they strengthen muscles for milking
time."

"May I wait and ride down with Mr. Matthew and show him where to put our
wheat, Mother?" asked Polly as she snuggled up to her mother, who was
pinning a stray pink into Matthew's button-hole per his request.

"Yes, if he'll put his legs under old Mrs. Butter to help you get done