“Oh, come with me, Ann, and let me—­” Matthew wooed.

“Matt,” I answered gravely, “I haven’t been here twenty-four hours yet, but when the thought of having it all taken away came to me, something in me rose and made me rage, rage, as I did in the house.  I don’t know what it is, but there is something in this low old farm-house, this tumble-down old barn, that leafless old garden with its crumbling brick walks, and these neglected, worn-out old acres, which seems to—­to feed me and which I know I would perish without.  Oh, please understand and—­and help me a little like you did this morning,” I ended with a broken plea, as I stretched out my hand to him just as I entered the door of my barn—­castle of dreams for the future.

“Dear Lord, the pluck of women!” Matthew exclaimed reverently, down in his throat.  “I’ll be here, Ann, whenever you want me, and if you say that chickens must fill my future life, then chickens it shall be,” he added, rising to the surface of the question again.

“Oh, Matt, you are a darling, and I—­” I was exclaiming when a soft voice from out of the shadows of the barn interrupted me and an apple-blossom in the shape of a girl drifted into the late afternoon sunlight from the direction of the feed-room.

“I’m Polly Beesley, and mother sent these eggs to scramble with the ones you got this morning for supper,” she said in a low voice that was positively fragrant with sweetness.  Two huge plaits of corn-silk hair fell over her shoulders, and her eyes were as shy and blue as violets were before they became a large commercial product.  Her gingham dress was cut with decorum just below her shoe-tops and, taking into consideration the prevailing mode, its length, fullness, and ruffles made the slim young thing look like a picture from the same review from which I had cut my smocks.  However, I am sure that if she had been at the between six and eighteen age year before last, when about two and a half yards of gingham would have been modish for her costume, she would still have been attired in the voluminous ruffles.

“Holy smokes,” I thought I heard Matthew gurgle, and I felt him start at the apparition, though the young thing never so much as glanced in his direction as she tendered me a quaint little basket in which lay half a dozen eggs, real homely brown eggs and not pearl treasures.

“Oh, thank you, Polly dear,” I answered with enthusiasm, and in obedience to some urge resulting from the generations ahead of Polly and my incarnation in the atmosphere of Riverfield, my lips met the rosy ones that were held up to me.  I felt sorry for Matthew, and I couldn’t restrain a glance of mischief at him that crossed his that were fixed on the yellow braids.

“I didn’t believe it of this day and generation,” I heard him mutter as I presented him to Polly, who answered that she was “pleased to make his acquaintance,” in a voice in which terror belied the sentiment expressed.