looks--apples isn't."

"Apples isn't?" he repeated soberly.

"Oh, cheer up, that's a joke! I know apples _aren't_!"

The young man smiled.

"Mine _isn't_, I'm afraid, from what you say about them."

"I think maybe that speck isn't a wormhole, after all," said Phil,
subjecting the apple she still held to another scrutiny. "You might give
us a half a bushel of these. My ambitions lead me toward apple pie, and
if it doesn't come out well I can blame your apples."

He smiled again, and frank admiration shone in his eyes as they surveyed
Phil with more assurance.

"If you really want some of these I'll bring them in. Half a bushel?"

"That will be enough," replied Phil succinctly. She rubbed the apple
with the corner of her blue-and-white apron, chose a spot that inspired
confidence, and bit into it. She waited for the effect absently and
puckered her lips. "It's a cooker. What's the name of the brand?"

"Give it up."

"Then I'll tell you. It's a 'Liza Browning. You'd better learn the names
of apples before you go much further in the business. Any farmhand can
tell you. Uncle Amy's taught me about twenty. What's the price of this
precious fruit?"

"Oh, I couldn't charge you for these, you know. You see--"

"Then I won't take them--nary an apple! You bring in those apples and
I'll pay you just the same price you ask everybody else."

Her attention was attracted by a black cat moving along the alley fence
with noble unconcern. Phil stepped out upon the brick walk, drew back
her arm and threw the apple. It struck the fence immediately beneath the
cat, which vanished on the alley side.

"Good shot. You almost got him!"

"Almost nothing!" said Phil scornfully. "You didn't suppose I wanted to
hit the wretch, did you? He's an old pal of mine and would be lonesome
if I didn't scare him to death occasionally."

Holton brought the apples in a sack which he emptied into a basket Phil
found for the purpose. His absence had been prolonged. To measure half a
bushel of apples is not ordinarily a serious matter, but in this
instance the vendor chose fastidiously. The fruit that went into the
sack was beyond question the best in the wagon.

"How much?" asked Phil, surveying her purchase, purse in hand.

"Oh, about a quarter."

She handed him a fifty cent piece.

"Please don't try that again--not here! I've been telephoning the
grocery and apples about like those are a dollar a bushel.
Good-morning!"

"Good-morning