stable, and taking such good care of him. If Hal had known, he wouldn't
have worried so about the little beast. He's been so tenderly cared for,
we couldn't bear to think of him as off in the open fields with nobody
but Fayette."

Mr. Wingate said not a word. He simply ceased groaning and grimacing,
and he slipped his arm through Amy's, while a curious expression settled
on his face. He did not lean at all heavily upon her, however, and he
merely glanced toward the burro as the pair walked to the stable door.
Then the animal thought it time to protest. Amy had brought him fresh
grass, but she had dropped it all outside his manger, where he could not
reach it. This was aggravation in the extreme. More than that, whenever,
in the old days, she had been afflicted with one of these outbursts of
affection, there had generally been a lump of sugar connected with it.
To lose affection, hay, and sugar, all in one unhappy moment, was too
much even for donkey patience.

"AH-UMPH! H-umph! A-h-u-m-p-h!"

"Whew! he's split my ears open. Plague take the beast!" cried Mr.
Wingate, hurrying forward, and now stepping with suspicious freedom from
lameness.

Amy hurried, too, wondering at his sudden recovery. "Oh, do you dislike
his talk? I love it. I always laugh when I hear it, it is so absurd, and
Pepita's was even funnier. She had a feminine note, so to speak, and she
whined like a spoiled baby."

"What do you know about spoiled babies?"

"Why--nothing--only William Gladstone, he's a trifle self-willed, I
think."

"William Gladstone! What do you mean? Who are you talking about? Are you
all crazy together?"

"Not the English statesman, certainly. Just Mrs. Jones's youngest son.
And I don't think we're crazy."

"I think you are, the whole lot. Well, will you come into the house
with me? How did you know the donkey was here? Who told you?"

"He told me," laughed Amy. "Yes, I'll go in if you wish, if I can help
you."

"How did he tell you?"

"I was gathering these ferns in the glen, and I heard him bray. See,
aren't they beautiful? They're for the table to-morrow. The prettiest
ferns in all Fairacres grow along the banks of 'Merrywater.'"

"Yes, I know. I used to gather them when I was a child. My grandmother
liked them, though she called them plain 'brakes.' So you're not afraid
to trespass, then? And you're able to have a dinner-party even so soon
after--and with all the pretended devotion. But Cuthbert--"

Amy's hand