"Sally, Foster Crain says aigs air fetchin' fo'hteen an' a half cents in town. Count what's stored away in the big gourd, when you git through eatin', an' take 'em in this mornin'."
"How am I to go?" asked her daughter, looking up from her plate. "Joe's limping from that nail he picked up yesterday."
"Likely somebody'll be passin' the gate that'll give you a seat. The Squire may be along soon." A certain inflection crept into the speaker's voice.
"I'll walk," announced Sally, with sudden determination. "It's cool and pleasant, and I'd as soon walk as ride."
The mother looked across furtively to where her daughter sat.
"I don't see what makes you so set ag'in the Squire," she said, plaintively, a few moments later, as if she had divined her daughter's unuttered thoughts.
"He's an old fool!" declared Sally, promptly.
"An' it strikes me that you're somethin' of a young one!" retorted her mother sharply.
The girl made no answer, save a perceptible shrug of her pretty shoulders, and soon afterward got up and began to clear away the breakfast dishes. Mrs. Brown sighed deeply.
"Most girls would be powerful vain to have the Squire even notice 'em," the mother continued, in a more persuasive tone, as a sort of balm offering to the girl's wounded feelings. She placed her cup and saucer in her plate and put back a small piece of unused butter on the side of the butter dish, then slowly arose from the table.