Mary Ellen and David came slowly walking past.  They didn’t seem to be saying much.  She had come out bareheaded, just for a little fresh air and a stroll round the house.  How cool she looked, in her light blue gown, and her white apron, that tied behind with white bows and strings, or streams!  A May-bee buzzed about their ears, and lighted on her shoulder.  Poor David!  He brushed it off before he thought.  How frightened he looked! how confused!  But then just think of all the other may-bes he had in his head, confusing him, buzzing to him all manner of beautiful things!

They stopped under the early-ripe tree.  Mary Ellen pointed upwards, laughing.  He sprang up and snatched off the apple.  Then she pointed higher, and still higher, until at last he climbed the tree, and dropped the apples down into her apron.

“Mr. Lane,” said Miss Joey, in an impressive undertone, “did you ever hear of anybody’s bewitchin’ anybody?”

“In books, Joey,” he answered.

“Wal,” said she, in a low, but decided voice, “I’ll tell you what I think, and what’s ben my mind from the beginnin’ on’t.  That gal’s bewitched David.  Don’t you remember,” she continued, “that the fust week they come David had a bad cold?”

“Wal, like enough he did,” drawled the old man.  “David was always subject to a bad cold.”

“He did,” replied Miss Joey.  “I’ve got the whole on’t in my mind now.  And mebby you’ve noticed that these folks are great for gatherin’ in herbs, and lobely, and bottlin’ up hot-crop?”

“Pepper-tea’s a suvverin’ remedy for a cold,” put in the old man.

“But now,” Miss Joey proceeded, sinking her voice almost to a whisper, “I want to fix your thoughts on somethin’ dark-colored, in a vial, that she fetched across the entry for him to take.”

“Help him any?”

“Can’t say it did, and can’t say it didn’t.  But ever sence that, David’s ben a different man.  He’s follered that gal about as if there’d ben a chain a-drawin’ him,—­as if she’d flung a lassoo round his neck, and was pullin’ him along.  See him, and you see her.  If she wants huckleberries, she has huckleberries.  If she wants violets, she has violets.  See him now, lookin’ down at her through the branches.  And see her, turnin’ her face up towards him.  He’s nigh upon addled.  Shouldn’t wonder this minute, if he didn’t know enough to keep his hold o’ the branch.  Does that seem like our David, Mr. Lane, a bashful young feller like him?”

“Bashful or bold makes no difference,” replied the old man.  “Love’ll go where’t is sent,—­likely to hit one as t’ other.  And when they’re hit, you can’t tell ’em apart.—­Why, Joey,” he continued, suddenly quickening his tone, “there’s the Doctor’s boy, as I’m alive!”

Dr. Luce lived the other side of “the Crick.”  The young man coming along the road was his son, just arrived home.

As he came nearer, I took notice of his dress.  I usually did, when people came from the city.  He wore a black bombazine coat, white trousers, white waistcoat, blue necktie, and a Panama hat.  His complexion was fair, with plenty of light hair waving about his temples.  He stepped briskly along, with shoulders set back, twirling his glove.