"Yes."
"Goodness me, gal! I hope not. I'm a communin' Christian in our church, an' I hope I don't have no hatred in my heart against none o' my fellermen. But I hate some things that poor, weak, human critters does—yes, ma'am! 'Specially some of the ornery things Bob Buckham's done."
"Oh, Mr. Buckham! you never stole," blurted out Agnes.
"Ya-as I have. That's why I hate stealin' so, I reckon," said the farmer, slowly.
"Not, really?" cried Agnes.
"Yep. 'Twas a-many year ago. Marm and me had jest come on this farm. She was young an' spry then, God bless her! And it was well she was. Bob Buckham wouldn't never have owned the place and stacked up the few dollars he has in bank, if it hadn't been for her spryness.
"I'd jest got my first strawberry patch inter bearin'——"
"Oh! Strawberries!" gasped Agnes.
"Ya-as'm. Them's what I've made most of my money on. I only had a small patch. They was fust-class berries—most on 'em. They packed well, and we had ter put 'em into round, covered, quart boxes to ship in them days. I got a repertation with the local shipper for havin' A-number-one fruit.
"Wal! Marm an' me was mighty hard up. We was dependin' on the re-turns from the strawberry crop to pay mortgage, int'rest and taxes. And one end of the strawberry patch—the late end—had the meachinest lookin' berries ye ever seen."