“Go over them, Mr. Wasson?” repeated Molly.
“Yes, miss; I clean them, and make sure that each hive has a queen. It’s no fool of a job! The year I was sick mother tended to them, and she hasn’t had any hands since.”
Molly opened her eyes, and glanced at Pauline.
“No hands to speak of, I mean, miss. She strained ’em, I tell her, when she strained the honey.”
Mr. Wasson smiled broadly at his own jest. His smile was the only broad thing about him.
“Oh, that was too bad, Mr. Wasson,” said Molly, smiling from sympathy.
“Mother’s come to the door with her starched gown on,” he continued facetiously. “She expects you to go in. I always do as mother says. She’s brigadier-general, and I’m only a private.”
“Isn’t he odd, Molly?” whispered Pauline as they followed Mr. Wasson along the beaten path.
Molly squeezed Pauline’s hand, and Paul and Kirke grinned.
They found Mrs. Wasson as short and plump as her husband was tall and spare. Her one straight line was her mouth, enclosed between two curving wrinkles like a dash in parentheses.