But the encounter left him strange and silent for a week, and his Dean mark twitched and leaped in triumph.  During that time the only notice he took of Annie was to teach her to use his rifle.

“Another tramp comes round, shoot him,” he commanded.

“En in de meantime,” counselled Aunt Dolcey, “it’ll come in mighty handy fer you to kill off some deseyer chicken hawks what makin’ so free wid our nex’ crap br’ilers.”

But beyond the learning how to use the gun Annie had learned something more:  she added it to her knowledge that Aunt Dolcey had once outfaced that tyrant.  It was this—­that Wes’s rage was the same, whether the cause of it was real or imaginary.

* * * * *

The advancing summer, with its sultriness, its sudden evening storms shot through with flaming lightning and reverberant with the drums of thunder, brought to Annie a cessation of her purpose.  She was languid, subject to whimsical desires and appetites, at times a prey to sudden nervous tears.  The household work slipped back into Aunt Dolcey’s faithful hands, save now and then when Annie felt more buoyant and instinct with life and energy than she had ever felt before.  Then she would weed her garden or churn and print a dozen rolls of butter with a keen and vivid delight in her activity.

In the evening she and Wes walked down the long lane and looked at the wheat, wide level green plains already turning yellow; or at the corn, regiments of tall soldiers, each shako tipped with a feathery tassel.  Beyond lay the woods—­dark, mysterious.  Little dim plants of the soil bloomed and shed faint scent along the pathway in the dewy twilight.  Sometimes they sat under the wild clematis, flowering now, and that, too, was perfumed, a wild and tangy scent that did not cloy.  They did not talk very much, but he was tender with her, and his fits of anger seemed forgotten.

When they did talk it was usually about the crops—­the wheat.  It was wonderful heavy wheat.  It was the best wheat in all the neighbourhood.  Occasionally they took out the little coffeepot and drove through the country and looked at other wheat, but there was none so fine as theirs.

And with the money it would bring—­the golden wheat turned into gold—­they would——­ And now came endless dreams.

“I thought we’d sell the old coffeepot to the junkman and get a brand-new car, a good one, but now——­” This was Wes.

“I think we ought to save, too.  A boy’ll need so many things.”

“Girls don’t need anything much, I suppose—­oh, no!” He touched her cheek with gentle fingers.

“It’s not going to be a girl.”

“How d’you know?”

“I know.”

So went their talk, over and over, an endless garland of happy conjectures, plans, air castles.  Cousin Lorena sent little patterns and thin scraps of material, tiny laces, blue ribbons.

“I told her blue—­blue’s for boys,” said Annie.  And Wes laughed at her.  It was all a blessed interlude of peace and expectancy.