Anna did not answer him. She was tired; she had played, she had cried,
now she wanted to rest.

In Frye's General Store, Mr. Frye and Mr. Crabbe were disputing a game
of checkers. They sat opposite each other, stared at the checkerboard,
and stroked their chins. Farmer Barly stood watching them. He puffed
on his pipe, and nodded his head at every move. But all the while he
was thinking about Anna. "Pretty near time she was settling down," he
thought.

Mr. Frye jumped over two, and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied
smile. The hops of his own men put him into the best of humor. It was
not that he wanted to win; he only wanted to do all the jumping. "Let
me do the taking," he would have said, "and you can do the winning."
When Mr. Crabbe hopped over three in a row, Mr. Frye became gloomy. He
felt that Mr. Crabbe was getting all the pleasure. "You're too spry
for me," he said. "You're like a flea. Well. . . ."

"It's your turn, Mr. F.," said Mr. Crabbe.

Mr. Frye looked at the board with distaste. There were no more jumps
for him to make. He pushed a round black checker forward.

"There you are," he said.

"Here I go," declared Mr. Crabbe. And he began hopping again.

Mr. Frye shook his head. "I don't know as I'm feeling very good
to-day," he told Farmer Barly.

As he was speaking, Anna Barly entered the store, on her way home.
Thomas Frye, who was behind the counter, came forward to meet her.
When she saw him, her cheeks, which were pale, grew red. "He can see I
was crying," she thought. "Well, I don't care. I hate him. What did
I stop for?"

She remembered that her mother had wanted a spool of white cotton.
"Number eleven," she said.

When she saw her father and Mr. Frye in the corner, she grew sulkier
than ever. "They're just laying to settle me down," she thought. And
turning to hide her face, still stained with tears, she made believe to
wave to some one, out the window.

Mr. Crabbe took another man. "Tsck," said Mr. Frye; "maybe I'd better
go and see what Anna wants. Thomas don't appear to know what he's
about."

"Leave them be," said Mr. Crabbe, "leave them be." And he winked first
at Mr. Barly, and then at Mr. Frye. "Don't go spoiling things," he
said.

Mr. Frye allowed his mouth to droop in a thin smile. "Young people are
slow to-day," he remarked. "They act like they had something on their
minds. Green fruit . . . slow to ripe. In my time we went at it
smart