“I guess you’re right,” said the mother, soberly.  “Not but what my man’s good enough, but he don’t seem to get along, somehow.  The farm’s wore out, and the mortgage comes around so regular.”

“Where do you live?” asked Victoria, suddenly growing serious.

“Fitch’s place.  ’Tain’t very far from the Four Corners, on the Avalon road.”

“And you are Mrs. Fitch?”

“Callate to be,” said the mother.  “If it ain’t askin’ too much, I’d like to know your name.”

“I’m Victoria Flint.  I live not very far from the Four Corners—­that is, about eight miles.  May I come over and see you sometime?”

Although Victoria said this very simply, the mother’s eyes widened until one might almost have said they expressed a kind of terror.

“Land sakes alive, be you Mr. Flint’s daughter?  I might have knowed it from the lace—­that dress must have cost a fortune.  But I didn’t think to find you so common.”

Victoria did not smile.  She had heard the word “common” so used before, and knew that it was meant for a compliment, and she turned to the woman with a very expressive light in her eyes.

“I will come to see you—­this very week,” she said.  And just then her glance, seemingly drawn in a certain direction, met that of a tall young man which had been fixed upon her during the whole of this scene.  She coloured again, abruptly handed the baby back to his mother, and rose.

“I’m neglecting all these people,” she said, “but do sit there and rest yourself and—­have some more lemonade.”

She bowed to Austen, and smiled a little as she filled the glasses, but she did not beckon him.  She gave no further sign of her knowledge of his presence until he stood beside her—­and then she looked up at him.

“I have been looking for you, Miss Flint,” he said.

“I suppose a man would never think of trying the obvious places first,” she replied.  “Hastings, don’t you see that poor old woman over there?  She looks so thirsty—­give her this.”

The boy addressed, with a glance at Austen, did as he was bid, and she sent off a second on another errand.

“Let me help,” said Austen, seizing the cake; and being seized at the same time, by an unusual and inexplicable tremor of shyness, thrust it at the baby.

“Oh, he can’t have anymore; do you want to kill him?” cried Victoria, seizing the plate, and adding mischievously, “I don’t believe you’re of very much use—­after all!”

“Then it’s time I learned,” said Austen.  “Here’s Mr. Jenney.  I’m sure he’ll have a piece.”

“Well,” said Mr. Jenney, the same Mr. Jenney of the apple orchard, but holding out a horny hand with unmistakable warmth, “how be you, Austen?” Looking about him, Mr. Jenney put his hand to his mouth, and added, “Didn’t expect to see you trailin’ on to this here kite.”  He took a piece of cake between his thumb and forefinger and glanced bashfully at Victoria.