Peter, the dreamer, wove some new fancies about his dainty love as he sat with a writing pad upon his knee, and his short pipe between his lips. The world was very beautiful to him. And to-morrow would be Sunday; the happiest day of all the good week; for he would see Nellie at church.
The collie dog at his feet jumped up and ran down the walk. At the gate stood a shabby phaeton made distinguished by carrying Mistress Amanda. As he hastened out she called in a loud, clear tone:
"Good morning, Mr. Weaver, have you any turkey eggs to spare?"
Her hand, in its old gray gauntlet, was extended, and as he took it for a second in his own she added, lower,
"So much as a concession to our neighbor's greed, yonder!"
Peter looked and saw Elmer Hall approaching, driving a pair of hogs before him. Taking the cue, he talked about turkey eggs until the grunts had died away in the distance.
Then said madam—"I didn't come to talk about turkey eggs."
Peter drew a hand through his handsome hair; looked down reflectively and looked up smiling. "Will you come in?" he suggested. A decided shake of the head answered that. "My five years' seniority wouldn't excuse it—to the Greenes and Aylors! I doubt if even my mother could venture it. We may risk ten minutes here at the gate."
Mistress Amanda began flicking her whip at a thistle; her forehead gathering lines. Suddenly the words shot from her: