“He won’t have it when he gets out of the Army.”

Mary rose and went to the stove.  She came back with a kettle and poured boiling water over a dish of almonds to blanch them.

“We ought to have made this fruit cake a week ago to have it really good,” she said, and shelved the subject of Truxton Beaufort.

“It will be good enough as it is,” said Mrs. Flippin; “there isn’t anybody in the county that can beat me when it comes to baking cakes.”

“Where’s Fiddle,” Mary said, suddenly; “can you see her from the window, Mother?”

Mrs. Flippin could not.

“Well, she’s probably sailing her celluloid fish in the chickens’ water pan,” said Mary; “I’ll go out and look her up in a minute.”

But Fiddle was not sailing celluloid fish.  Columbus-like she had decided that there were wider seas than the water pan.  Once upon a time her grandmother had taken her to the bottom of the hill, and at the bottom of the hill there had been a lot of water, and Fiddle had walked in it with her bare feet, and had splashed.  She had liked it much better than the chickens’ pan.

So she had picked up her three celluloid fish and had trotted down the path.  She wore her pink rompers, and as she bobbed along she was like a mammoth rose-petal blown by the wind.

At the foot of the hill she came upon a little brown stream.  It was just a thread of a stream, very shallow with a lot of big flat stones.  Fiddle walked straight into it, and the clear water swept over her toes.  She put in her little fish, and quite unexpectedly, they swam away.  She followed and came to where the stream was spanned by a rail-fence which separated the Flippin farm from the road.  The lowest rail was about as high above the stream as her own fast-beating heart.  She ducked under it and discovered one of her fish whirling in a small eddy.  It was a red fish and she was very fond of it.  She made a sudden grab, caught it, lost her balance and sat down in the water.  After the first shock, she found that she liked it.  The other fish had continued on their journey towards the river.  Perhaps some day they would come to the sea.  Fiddle forgot them.  She held the little red fish fast and splashed the water with her heels.

Now on each side of the water was a road, which went up a hill each way, so that cars coming down, put on speed to go up, and forded the stream which was a mere thread of water except after high rains.

Randy was talking to the Major as he came down the hill.  He did not see Fiddle until he was almost upon her.  He was driving at high speed, and there was only a second in which to jam things down and pull things up and stop the car.

Kemp was behind him.  He was not prepared for Randy’s sudden stop.  He swerved sharply to the left, slammed into a telegraph pole—­and came back to life to find somebody bending over him.  “Who is looking after the lady, sir?” he managed to murmur.