n
her eyes, troubled the man who had come through the corn and found the
girl he loved standing with the preacher. The self-conscious look on
the preacher's face assured David that he had stumbled through the field
in an awkward moment, that his presence was unwelcome. He turned to go
back, but Phoebe stepped quickly to him and took his hand.

"Ah," thought Phares with a twinge of jealousy, "she wouldn't do that to
me. How quickly she dropped her hand a while ago. They are such good
friends, she and David. It's wrong to be envious; I must fight against
it--and yet--I want her just as much as David does!"

"David," Phoebe begged, "come back! Why, I was just wishing you were
here! There's a scarlet tanager--see!" She pointed to the brilliant
songster.

"I thought he was coming to this woods so I came to hunt him," said
David, his irritation gone. "I saw that fellow over by the tobacco field
and followed him here. I bet they have their nest in this very woods.
We'll look better next spring and try to find it and see the little
ones. Tut, tut," he whistled to the bird, "don't sing your pretty head
off." His eyes turned to the sky and the smile left his face. "It looks
threatening," he said. "I thought I heard thunder as I came through the
corn."

"That so?" said Phares. "Then we better move in."

Even as they turned and started through the field the thunder came
again--distant--nearer, rolling in ominous rumbles.

"Look at the sky," said David. "Clear yellow--that means hail!"

"Oh, David"--Phoebe stood still and looked at him--"not hail on your
tobacco!"

He took her arm. "Come on, Phoebe, it's coming fast. We must get in.
Come to our house, Phares, that's the nearest."

Just as they reached the kitchen door, where Mother Bab was looking for
them, the hail came.

"It's hail, Mommie," David said. The three words held all the worry and
pain of his heart.

"Never mind"--the little mother patted his shoulder. "It's hail for more
people than we know, perhaps for some who are much poorer than we are."

"But the tobacco----" He stood by the window, impotent and weak, while
the devastating hail pounded and rattled and smote the broad leaves of
his tobacco and rendered it almost worthless.

"Won't new leaves grow again?" Phoebe tried to cheer him.

"Not this late in the summer. My tobacco was almost ready to be cut; it
was unusually early this year."

"Well," spoke up the preacher, "I can't see why you always pla