"They's all drinkin' beer in the yard now an' tappin' another
barrel to drink at when the waggon comes in. There's no animals on
earth as ever thirsty as men! Well, good luck t'ye! I must go, or
there'll be a smell of burnin' supper-cakes."

She settled her sunbonnet anew and trotted away,--looking rather
like a large spotted mushroom mysteriously set in motion and
rolling, rather than walking, off the field.

When she was gone, Innocent sat down again upon the hay, this time
without Cupid. He had flown off to join his mates on the farmhouse
gables.

"Dad is really not well," she said, thoughtfully; "I feel anxious
about him. If he were to die,--" At the mere thought her eyes
filled with tears. "He must die some day," answered Robin,
gently,--"and he's old,--nigh on eighty."

"Oh, I don't want to remember that," she murmured. "It's the
cruellest part of life--that people should grow old, and die, and
pass away from us. What should I do without Dad? I should be all
alone, with no one in the world to care what becomes of me."

"_I_ care!" he said, softly.

"Yes, you care--just now"--she answered, with a sigh; "and it's
very kind of you. I wish I could care--in the way you want me to--
but--"

"Will you try?" he pleaded.