“Well, I know all about it now,” Neil Chase informed the company, as he got into his car.  “We ploughed seven acres and sowed it to buckwheat, turned the buckwheat under and have now planted the ground to potatoes.  In the end there are to be strawberries on the seven acres—­or a good share of it—­and Burnside, Lane & Co. are to become the most successful strawberry culturists in this part of the country.”

“Right you are,” agreed Jarvis placidly, sitting down on the edge of the porch and poking about in Janet Ferry’s work-bag until he found a thimble, which he placed on the only finger it would fit, the smallest one on his right hand.  He had washed the hands before he came to the porch, but they were so brown that the little gold thimble looked most absurd in its new position.

“If I sew for you for an hour, Miss Janet,” he proposed, as the car bolted away down the drive, “will you come and hoe potatoes for me until lunch time?”

“I would gladly hoe potatoes all day if I could be let off from going to play for Mrs. Chase’s friends this evening.”  The fierce energy with which Janet pulled out a row of bastings gave emphasis to her words.

Jarvis looked at his sister.  “How did you manage not to let me in for this affair, Sis?”

“I knew you wouldn’t go, and Janet knew her brother wouldn’t.  Sally said Max would be too used up.  Happy boys—­we saved you from it at the price of going ourselves.”

“Self-sacrificing girls!  We’ll have to make it up to you somehow.  When I see Ferry I’ll—­Hold on, I’ve an idea.  How are you coming home?”

“In Neil’s car—­as we go.”

“We’ll see that you come in a better way.  Be good little girls, do your stunts, keep up your courage, and we’ll rescue you promptly at eleven o’clock,” and putting down the thimble Jarvis went away, deaf to entreaties to tell what his interesting plan might be.

“Oh, dear, isn’t it horrid?” demanded Sally that evening, running into Josephine’s room in the course of her dressing to have certain unreachable hooks and eyes fastened.  “After sewing all day we deserve something better than one of the Chases’ fussy affairs.”

“Stop fuming and stand still.  Anybody who looks as pretty as you do in this white swiss—­”

“Poor old white swiss—­the same one.  I wish Dorothy could forget the pattern of it.  She’ll undoubtedly mention that I wore it at her wedding,—­she does, every time.”

“Don’t you care a bit.  Those touches of blue make it seem perfectly fresh to me, and I’ve seen it much oftener than Dorothy Chase has.”

“You’re a comfort.  You look like a dream yourself, in that peach-coloured thing.”

“A midsummer day’s dream, then—­with my gypsy skin.  Oh, there’s Neil and his car.”