"I must work," Miles answered proudly. "I'm not a child or a girl, so I cannot stop to play."
Yet he was child enough to think he should like to go get a handful of those rare, pretty flowers. After he got them, he would not greatly care for them, but there would be the zest of owning something that every boy in the colony did not own; and if he gave the flowers to Dolly or to Constance, it would please them, since they were girls. So, before dawn next morning, Miles tumbled out of bed, and, taking in his hand the hunch of bread that formed his breakfast, ran away up beyond the spring. Perhaps before work-time he could find a blossom or two, he thought; and so grubbed hopefully among the damp, dead leaves of the hillslope.
The mist that precedes the sunrise melted from the air; a bird sang faintly in the distance; and even amidst the undergrowth the light grew yellow and cheerful; work-time was near, and Miles had found only a poor half-dozen blossoms. He hated to give over, but there was no help for it; so, getting slowly to his feet, he was starting down the path to the settlement, when a man crashed out through the bushes on his left. It was John Alden, Miles saw at once, and he carried a great handful of the pink flowers.
That was palpably an unfair arrangement, Miles held, so, as he fell into step at Alden's side, he queried: "You did not come hither and strip our place, did you?"
"Whose place, lad?"
"Why, mine and Dolly's and Priscilla's and—"
"Do you think I should dare plunder the holding of so many proprietors? I have been to northward."
Miles was silenced a moment, then insinuated, "John Alden, what do you want of posies? You're a man."
"Well, what do you want of them, Miles?" John smiled down at him.
"I'm going to give mine away; I'm taking them to the Elder's cottage—"