“Well, Mark,” he said, “I am glad you’re home.  Mighty! but you look improved.”

He gasped again and smiled through his bushy beard.

“Thank you,” said I, icily, waving him toward a chair.

Josiah sat down and smiled again.

“It just does me good to see you,” he said, having completely recovered his power of speech.  “I should have come down last night, Mark.  I ‘pologize for not doin’ it, but it’s mighty troublesome gittin’ ’round in the dark.  The last time I tried it, I caught the end of my stick between two rocks and it broke.  There I was, left settin’ on the Red Hill with no way of gittin’ home.  I was in for comin’ down here to receive you—­really I was—­but my missus says she ain’t a-goin’ to have me rovin’ ’round the country that ’ay agin.  ‘Gimme an extry oar,’ I says.  And she says:  ’Does you ’spose I’ll let you run ‘round lookin’ like a load of wood?’ And I says——­”

The gate latch clicked.  Again Tim appeared from the maze of corn and stood shading his eyes and gazing toward the house.  Now the footfalls were light.  And Mary came!  But how could I look careless and dashing, with Josiah Nummler in the chair I had fixed so close to mine?  Rising, I bowed as awkwardly as possible.  I insisted on her taking my own rocker, while I fixed myself on the floor with a pillar for a back-rest.  Not a word did the girl say, but she sat there clutching the little basket she held in her lap.

“Eggs?” inquired Josiah.

She shook her head, but did not enlighten him.

“I should judge your hens ain’t layin’ well, figurin’ on the size of the basket,” said the old man, ignoring her denial.  “There’s a peculiarity about the hens in this walley—­it’s somethin’ I’ve noticed ever since I was a boy.  I’ve spoke to my missus about it and she has noticed the same thing since she was a girl—­so it must be a peculiarity.  The hens in this walley allus lays most when the price of eggs is lowest.”

This was a serious problem.  It is not usual for Josiah to be serious, either, for he is generally out of breath or laughing.  Now he was wagging his head solemnly, pulling his beard, and over and over repeating, “But hens is contrary—­hens is contrary.”

Mary contrived to drop the basket to her side, out of the old man’s sight.

“Speakin’ of hens,” he went on.  “My missus was sayin’ just yesterday how as——­”

Tim was shouting.  He was calling something to me.  I could not make out what it was, for the wind-was rustling the corn-shocks, but I arose and feigned to listen.

“It’s Tim,” said I.  “He’s calling to you, Josiah.  It’s something about your red heifer.”

“Red heifer—­I haven’t no red heifer,” returned the old man.

“Did I say heifer?  I should have said hog—­excuse me,” said I, blandly.

“But I have killed all my hogs,” Josiah replied, undisturbed.

Tim shouted again, making a trumpet of his hands.  To this day I don’t know what he was calling to us, but when this second message reached Josiah’s ears, it concerned some cider we had, that Tim was anxious to know if he would care for.  At the suggestion Josiah’s face became very earnest, and a minute later he was hurrying down the field to the spot where Tim’s hat and Tip Pulsifer’s shaggy hair showed above the wreck of a corn-shock.