"What kind am I?"

"Sugar and spice and everything nice."

"Did you learn to say such things in France?"

"Haven't I always said them?"

"Not in quite the same way. You've grown up, Randy. You seem _years_
older."

"Do you like me--older?"

"Of course." There was warmth in her voice but no coquetry. "What a
silly thing to ask, Randy."

Calvin, having served the lunch, ate his own particular feast of
chicken backs and necks under the surrey from a pasteboard box cover.
Having thus separated himself as it were from those he served, he was
at his ease. He knew his place and was happy in it.

Mary Flippin also knew her place. But she was not happy. She sat
higher up on the hill with her child asleep in her arms, and looked
down on the Judge's party. Except for an accident of birth, she might
be sitting now among them. Would she ever sit among them? Would her
little daughter, Fidelity?


III