Hollis gave an embarrassed cough.  “No, sir,” he returned.

“Then I’d see to it that I did it.  That little girl joined the Church last Sunday and I declare it almost took my breath away.  I got the Bible down last Sunday night and read a chapter in the New Testament.  If you haven’t got a Bible, I’ll give you money to buy one.”

“Oh, I have one,” said Hollis uneasily.

“Git up, there!” shouted Captain Rheid to his horses, and spoke not another word all the way home.

After taking a few slow steps Marjorie quickened her pace, remembering that Linnet did not like to milk alone; Marjorie did not like to milk at all; at thirteen there were not many things that she liked to do very much, except to read and think.

“I’m afraid she’s indolent,” sighed her mother; “there’s Linnet now, she’s as spry as a cricket”

But Linnet was not conscious of very many things to think about and Marjorie every day discovered some new thought to revel in.  At this moment, if it had not been for that unfortunate pitcher, she would have been reviewing her conversation with Miss Prudence.  It was wonderful about punctuation; how many times a day life was “wonderful” to the growing child!

Along this road the farmhouses were scattered at long distances, there was one in sight with the gable end to the road, but the next one was fully quarter of a mile away; she noted the fact, not that she was afraid or lonely, but it gave her something to think of; she was too thoroughly acquainted with the road to be afraid of anything by night or by day; she had walked to her grandfather’s more times than she could remember ever since she was seven years old.  She tried to guess how far the next house was, how many feet, yards or rods; she tried to guess how many quarts of blueberries had grown in the field beyond; she even wondered if anybody could count the blades of grass all along the way if they should try!  But the remembrance of the broken pitcher persisted in bringing itself uppermost, pushing through the blades of grass and the quarts of blueberries; she might as well begin to plan how she was to earn another pitcher!  Or, her birthday was coming—­in a month she would be fourteen; her father would certainly give her a silver dollar because he was glad that he had had her fourteen years.  A quick, panting breath behind her, and the sound of hurrying feet, caused her to turn her head; she fully expected to meet the gaze of some big dog, but instead a man was close upon her, dusty, travel-stained, his straw hat pushed back from a perspiring face and a hand stretched out to detain her.

On one arm he carried a long, uncovered basket in which were arranged rows and piles of small bottles; a glance at the basket reassured her, every one knew Crazy Dale, the peddler of essences, cough-drops and quack medicines.

“It’s lonesome walking alone; I’ve been running to overtake you; I tried to be in time to catch a ride; but no matter, I will walk with you, if you will kindly permit.”