and greeted her as she passed shyly by. When
she had passed he paused and looked admiringly after her. They had been in
the same classes at school all winter, the girl at the head, the boy at
the foot. But Hanford Weston's father owned the largest farm in all the
country round about, and he felt that did not so much matter. He would
rather see Marcia at the head anyway, though there never had been the
slightest danger that he would take her place. He felt a sudden desire now
to follow her. It would be a pleasure to carry those pails that she bore
as if they were mere featherweights.

He watched her long, elastic step for a moment, considered the sun in the
sky, and his father's command about the South meadow, and then strode
after her.

It did not take long to reach her side, swiftly as she had gone.

As well as he could, with the sudden hotness in his face and the tremor in
his throat, he made out to ask if he might carry her burden for her.
Marcia stopped annoyed. She had forgotten all about him, though he was an
attractive fellow, sometimes called by the girls "handsome Hanford."

She had been planning exactly how that pink sprigged chintz was to be
made, and which parts she would cut first in order to save time and
material. She did not wish to be interrupted. The importance of the matter
was too great to be marred by the appearance of just a schoolmate whom she
might meet every day, and whom she could so easily "spell down." She
summoned her thoughts from the details of mutton-leg sleeves and looked
the boy over, to his great confusion. She did not want him along, and she
was considering how best to get rid of him.

"Weren't you going somewhere else?" she asked sweetly. "Wasn't there a
rake over your shoulder? What have you done with it?"

The culprit blushed deeper.

"Where were you going?" she demanded.

"To the South meadow," he stammered out.

"Oh, well, then you must go back. I shall do quite well, thank you. Your
father will not be pleased to have you neglect your work for me, though
I'm much obliged I'm sure."

Was there some foreshadowing of her womanhood in the decided way she
spoke, and the quaint, prim set of her head as she bowed him good morning
and went on her way once more? The boy did not understand. He only felt
abashed, and half angry that she had ordered him back to work; and, too,
in a tone that forbade him to take her memory with him as he went.
Nevertheless her image lingered by the