once more. The road was very much like the one by which they had
approached the town, pleasant and shady, and with a tiny brook running
along the side. Marjorie bent over the little stream to wash the grime
of the city from her hands, and then stopped for a moment to splash the
bright drops upon some thirsty flowers growing on the bank and leaning
as far over as they could. While she was doing this, she heard the sound
of a hammer close by, and, glancing around, she saw that she was near a
farm-house with a large barn and sheds, and that a boy was busily
nailing the pickets on to a fence, the frame of which stood a little way
back from the road. Marjorie watched him for a few moments, admiring the
evenness with which he placed the pickets, and the sure, firm blows of
the hammer; at last, however, she began to grow uneasy. "Look," she said
to the Dream, "see how close together he is nailing them. That isn't the
right way. Why do you suppose he does it so? He's just spoiling the
looks of his fence."

"Probably he does it that way because he wants it that way," said the
Dream carelessly.

"But they don't look well that way, and it takes more pickets and more
nails and a longer time."

The Dream looked at the boy and the fence, critically. "It's not such a
bad fence," he said, dryly; "and the boy looks fairly smart, doesn't
he?--and he handles his tools as if he had built fences before. Perhaps
he knows what he is about."

"Y-e-s, he looks smart enough," agreed Marjorie; "but he is certainly
making a mistake now, and I think I ought to tell him about it."