grapes hung their tempting bunches overhead in vain. The persimmons,
frost-sweetened and brown, lay under the trees unsought by Ann's nimble
fingers, and the nuts pattered down on the dead leaves unheeded. While
the other children raced down the hills and whooped through the frosty
hollows, Ann followed gingerly in their wake, picking her way as best
she could through the rustling leaves and across the slippery logs that
bridged the little brooks. It was too cold to sit down. She was obliged
to keep stirring; so all that miserable afternoon she tagged after the
others, painfully conscious of her fine shoes, and a slave to the task
of keeping them clean.

"Hi! Ann, what's the matter?" called one of the boys as he noticed her
mincing along at the tail-end of the procession instead of gallantly
leading the charge as usual. Then his glance wandered down past the
checked sunbonnet and the long-sleeved gingham apron to the cause of her
leisurely gait.

"My eyes!" he exclaimed with more vigour than politeness. "What made you
pull your shoes so soon for, Ann? They ain't ripe. They're green as
gourds."

"Mind your own business, Bud Bailey," was the only answer he received,
but from then on what had been her greatest pride became her deepest
mortification. For some unaccountable reason, after awhile her feet
burned as if they were on fire, and before the afternoon was over the
pain was almost unbearable. Lottie found her sitting on a log behind a
big tree, with her arms clasped around her knees, rocking back and
forth, her eyes tightly closed and her teeth clenched.

"It must be the red pepper in those stockings that burns you so," she