“Find out when we get back to the hotel, I guess,” said her husband.

“No, I can’t wait till I get back to the hotel.  I want to know now.  I want you should stop at the very fust house we come to.  Dea’!  The’e don’t seem to be any houses, any moa.”  She peered out around the side of the carry-all and scrutinized the landscape.  “Hold on!  No, yes it is, too!  Whoa!  Whoa!  The’e’s a man in that hay-field, now!”

She laid hold of the reins and pulled the horse to a stand.  Mr. Lander looked round over his shoulder at her.  “Hadn’t you betta wait till you get within half a mile of the man?”

“Well, I want you should stop when you do git to him.  Will you?  I want to speak to him, and ask him all about those folks.”

“I didn’t suppose you’d let me have much of a chance,” said her husband.  When he came within easy hail of the man in the hay-field, he pulled up beside the meadow-wall, where the horse began to nibble the blackberry vines that overran it.

Mrs. Lander beckoned and called to the man, who had stopped pitching hay and now stood leaning on the handle of his fork.  At the signs and sounds she made, he came actively forward to the road, bringing his fork with him.  When he arrived within easy conversational distance, he planted the tines in the ground and braced himself at an opposite incline from the long smooth handle, and waited for Mrs. Lander to begin.

“Will you please tell us who those folks ah’, livin’ back there in the edge of the woods, in that new unfinished house?”

The man released his fork with one hand to stoop for a head of timothy that had escaped the scythe, and he put the stem of it between his teeth, where it moved up and down, and whipped fantastically about as he talked, before he answered, “You mean the Claxons?”

“I don’t know what thei’ name is.”  Mrs. Lander repeated exactly what she had said.

The farmer said, “Long, red-headed man, kind of sickly-lookin’?”

“We didn’t see the man”—­

“Little woman, skinny-lookin; pootty tonguey?”

“We didn’t see her, eitha; but I guess we hea’d her at the back of the house.”

“Lot o’ children, about as big as pa’tridges, runnin’ round in the bushes?”

“Yes!  And a very pretty-appearing girl; about thi’teen or fou’teen, I should think.”

The farmer pulled his fork out of the ground, and planted it with his person at new slopes in the figure of a letter A, rather more upright than before.  “Yes; it’s them,” he said.  “Ha’n’t been in the neighbahood a great while, eitha.  Up from down Po’tland way, some’res, I guess.  Built that house last summer, as far as it’s got, but I don’t believe it’s goin’ to git much fa’tha.”

“Why, what’s the matta?” demanded Mrs. Lander in an anguish of interest.

The man in the hay-field seemed to think it more dignified to include Lander in this inquiry, and he said with a glimmer of the eye for him, “Hea’d of do-nothin’ folks?”