Bertie looked up at the sky, but could tell nothing about the time.

"It takes experience to do it," said the man, laughing at his perplexed
look. "I've had thirty-eight years to learn."

Bertie resolved to ask his father to explain how the sun could be made
to tell the time, and then not seeing him anywhere about, untied
Whitefoot, who had pulled away to the length of the rein, and was trying
to snatch a few mouthfuls of grass, and rode away to the farm.

CHAPTER X.

BERTIE AND WINNIE.

One morning, about a week after the ride to the quarry, Bertie took his
sister Winnie in his donkey carriage and drove her to Woodlawn. It was a
pretty sight, and many of the villagers stopped with a smile to gaze
after them. Herbert with his clear blue eyes so like his father's, his
chestnut hair waving off his forehead, his bright, healthy complexion
and pleasant smile: Winnie with her close auburn curls, her laughing
brown eyes and cherry lips, formed a picture not often seen. Each of
them wore a straw hat to shade their eyes from the sun, and the voice of
Winnie sounded like the warbling of a bird, as she gayly echoed her
brother's laugh.

"Mamma say I may dive Whitefoot drass," lisped the child, not yet having
learned to articulate the letter g. "Whitefoot not bite me, no."

"Whitefoot is a good donkey. He never bites," answered Herbert,
decidedly. "Now, Winnie, you must keep hold of my hand, and not run away
as you do at the farm. I sha'n't have time to chase after you as Nancy
does."

"I'm doin' to be dood dirl, Bertie, mamma say so. Winnie not doin' to
make mamma cry any more."

"Here we are; and there's papa on the hill. See all the men and the
oxen!"

Winnie laughed, and clapped her hands.

They drove along till they came to the tree where Bertie sometimes tied
his donkey, and then he carefully lifted his sister to the ground.

"Wait a minute," he said, "and I'll lead you to the big cellar."

But the little girl couldn't stand still. She was as full of life as a
squirrel; and, when once upon her feet, ran to pull some grass for
Whitefoot.

The donkey did not think much of the little spears she brought him, and
put one by one into his mouth. He preferred to pull a whole mouthful at
once with his strong teeth; but he loved the children who were so kind
to him; and so he stood very patiently taking her present of grass, very
careful not to bite the tiny fingers in which she held it up for his
use.