“Didn’t you hear the breakfast-bell?” Sally was walking away from him toward the house.

“No, I didn’t.  Neither did you.”

But Sally continued to walk, regardless of the fact that both Alec and Bob had appeared round the corner of the house, coming toward her, hands in the pockets of their Sunday trousers, feet treading gingerly over the damp grass in their freshly-polished best shoes.  On whatever part of Strawberry Acres Sally should be descried to-day, it might be safely prophesied that there her family would be likely to foregather.

CHAPTER XX

GREEN LEAVES

“So the great day has come at last!  My word, but you’ve had the courage of your convictions!  What a stretch of ’em!”

“Of convictions?  Well, they’re certainly embodied in those seven acres, whether there are any strawberries there or not.  Don’t you want to get over the fence and stroll up one of the rows?  You may find a specimen or two of fruit worth setting your teeth into.”

Neil Chase, correctly clad in light flannels, eyed the fence critically before he clambered over it.  “I can be trusted to tear myself if there’s a twopenny splinter anywhere,” said he.  “Must admit it looks rather worth while over here, though.  Hello—­Dorothy’s over already.  Who’s that assisting her?  The Reverend Donald—­in blue overalls!  It’s lucky Old Dutch can’t see him now!  I say, you’ve got a lot of pickers.  Are they all members of the firm?”

Jarvis laughed as he followed Chase’s glance up the rows.  “You’ve struck us on our first day,” he admitted.  “We agreed to make it a special celebration among ourselves, since only a small part of the berries are ripe.”

“The pink sun-bonnet covers an acquaintance, then,” inferred Neil, watching it approach from a distance.  “Hello—­it’s Sally!” and he pulled off his hat to wave it in response to a salutation from the pink sun-bonnet, whose removal had disclosed a fair head whose locks the June sunshine was turning into gold.  “I suppose the blue one conceals Jo Burnside, the white one Miss Ferry, and so forth.  I always said you people were no farmers—­to dress for the part like stage strawberry-pickers,” he added, as Sally came within hearing.

“Why not?  Could any stage be set to equal this one?” inquired Sally Lane.  “No, no—­you can’t shake hands with me—­” She held up ten carmine-tipped fingers.  “What could be more appropriate for picking strawberries than a pink gingham?”

“It’s mighty becoming, anyhow,” Neil offered tribute.  “Jove, Sally, but farming certainly does agree with you.  Talk of roses—­Dorothy!” he called, “come here and look at these cheeks!  Full in the sunlight, too.  I’ll wager yours couldn’t stand such a test.”

Sally promptly put on her sun-bonnet.  “A strawberry patch is no place for flattery, Mr. Neil Chase,” said she.  “Come with me, Dorothy.  I’ll show you the biggest berry you ever saw in your life—­and you may eat it, too.”