intelligence. But this was not fated to be a ride of unbroken pleasure.

"Why what are those bars down for?" she said as they came up with a field
of winter grain. "Somebody's been in here with a wagon. O grandpa! Mr.
Didenhover has let the Shakers have my butternuts!--the butternuts that
you told him they mustn't have."

The old gentleman drew up his horse. "So he has!" said he.

Their eyes were upon the far end of the deep lot, where at the edge of one
of the pieces of woodland spoken of, a picturesque group of men and boys
in frocks and broad-brimmed white hats were busied in filling their wagon
under a clump of the now thin and yellow leaved butternut trees.

"The scoundrel!" said Mr. Ringgan under his breath.

"Would it be any use, grandpa, for me to jump down and run and tell them
you don't want them to take the butternuts?--I shall have so few."

"No, dear, no," said her grandfather, "they have got 'em about all by this
time; the mischief's done. Didenhover meant to let 'em have 'em unknown to
me, and pocket the pay himself. Get up!"

Fleda drew a long breath, and gave a hard look at the distant wagon where
_her_ butternuts were going in by handfuls. She said no more.

It was but a few fields further on that the old gentleman came to a sudden
stop again.

"Ain't there some of my sheep over yonder there, Fleda,--along with Squire