"No, indeed; I never care to hatch eggs unless I've a nice snug nest,
in some quiet place, with a baker's dozen of eggs under me. That's
thirteen, you know, and it's a lucky number for hens. So you may as
well eat this egg."

"Oh, I couldn't POSS'BLY eat it, unless it was cooked," exclaimed
Dorothy. "But I'm much obliged for your kindness, just the same."

"Don't mention it, my dear," answered the hen, calmly, and began
preening her feathers.

For a moment Dorothy stood looking out over the wide sea. She was
still thinking of the egg, though; so presently she asked:

"Why do you lay eggs, when you don't expect to hatch them?"

"It's a habit I have," replied the yellow hen. "It has always been my
pride to lay a fresh egg every morning, except when I'm moulting. I
never feel like having my morning cackle till the egg is properly
laid, and without the chance to cackle I would not be happy."

"It's strange," said the girl, reflectively; "but as I'm not a hen I
can't be 'spected to understand that."

"Certainly not, my dear."

Then Dorothy fell silent again. The yellow hen was some company, and
a bit of comfort, too; but it was dreadfully lonely out on the big
ocean, nevertheless.