It was "blossom-week," and every garden and hedge flaunted its bloom in the soft air. All about was the perfume of flowers, the odor of fresh grass, and that peculiar earthy smell of new-made garden beds but lately sprinkled. Behind the hill overlooking the harbor the sun was just sinking into the sea. Some sentinel cedars guarding its crest stood out in clear relief against the golden light. About their tops, in wide circles, swooped a flock of crows.

Gran'pop and Tom sat on the front porch, their chairs touching, his hand on hers. She had been telling him of Quigg's visit that morning. She had changed her dress for a new one. The dress was of brown cloth, and had been made in the village--tight where it should be loose, and loose where it should be tight. She had put it on, she told Pop, to make a creditable appearance before the board that night.

Jennie was flitting in and out between the sitting-room and the garden, her hands full of blossoms, filling the china jars on the mantel: none of them contained Quigg's contribution. Patsy was flat on his back on the small patch of green surrounding the porch, playing circus-elephant with Stumpy, who stood over him with leveled head.

Up the hill, but a few rods away, Cully was grazing the Big Gray--the old horse munching tufts of fresh, sweet grass sprinkled with dandelions. Cully walked beside him. Now and then he lifted one of his legs, examining the hoof critically for possible tender places.

There was nothing the matter with the Gray; the old horse was still sound: but it satisfied Cully to be assured, and it satisfied, too, a certain yearning tenderness in his heart toward his old chum. Once in a while he would pat the Gray's neck, smoothing his ragged, half worn mane, addressing him all the while in words of endearment expressed in a slang positively profane and utterly without meaning except to these two.

Suddenly Jennie's cheek flushed as she came out on the porch.

Carl was coming up the path. The young Swede was bareheaded, the short blond curls glistening in the light; his throat was bare too, so that one could see the big muscles in his neck. Jennie always liked him with his throat bare; it reminded her of a hero she had once seen in a play, who stormed a fort and rescued all the starving women.

"Da brown horse seek; batta come to stabble an' see him," Carl said, going direct to the porch, where he stood in front of Tom, resting one hand on his hip, his eyes never wandering from her face. He knew where Jennie was, but he never looked.

"What's the matter with him?" asked Tom, her thoughts far away at the moment.

"I don' know; he no eat da oats en da box."

"Will he drink?" said Tom, awakening to the importance of the information.

"Yas; 'mos' two buckets."

"It's fever he's got," she said, turning to Pop. "I thought that yisterday noon when I sees him a-workin'. All right, Carl; I'll be down before I go to the board meetin'. And see here, Carl; ye'd better git ready to go wid me. I'll start in a couple o' hours. Will it suit ye, Gran'pop, if Carl goes with me?"--patting her father's shoulder. "If ye keep on a-worritin' I'll hev to hire a cop to follow me round."

Carl lingered for a moment on the steps. Perhaps Tom had some further orders; perhaps, too, Jennie would come out again.

Involuntarily his eye wandered toward the open door, and then he turned to go. Jennie's heart sprang up in her throat. She had seen from behind the curtains the shade of disappointment that crossed her lover's face. She could suffer herself, but she could not see Carl unhappy. In an instant she was beside her mother.

Anything to keep Carl--she did not care what.

"Oh, Carl, will you bring the ladder so I can reach the long branches?" she said, her quick wit helping her with a subterfuge.

Carl turned and glanced at Tom. He felt the look in her face and could read her thoughts.

If Tom had heard Jennie she never moved. This affair must end in some way, she said to herself. Why had she not sent him away long before? How could she do it now when he had risked his life to save Patsy?

Then she answered firmly, still without turning her head, "No, Jennie; there won't be time. Carl must get ready to"--Pop laid his hand on hers.