“They are perfectly ripe,” she said; “I hope you will like them.”
“Thank’y, ma’am.”
“And, Soldier,” she turned to add with careless grace, “if you would be kind enough to drop the pits back into the saddlebag and give them to Mr. Deal he would be glad of them for planting.”
“Yes’m; I will——”
“How many peaches did I give you? Have you enough?”
“Plenty, ma’am; you gave me seven, ma’am.”
“Seven? Take two more—I insist—that makes nine, I think. Good day; and thank you.”
But the Messenger did not hear; there was something far more interesting to occupy her mind—a row of straw-thatched beehives under the fruit trees at the eastern end of the house.
From moment to moment, homing or outgoing bees sped like bullets across her line of vision; the hives were busy now that a gleam of pale sunshine lay across the grass. One bee, leaving the hive, came humming around the Cherokee roses. The Messenger saw the little insect alight and begin to scramble about, plundering the pollen-powdered blossom. The bee was a yellow one.
Suddenly the Messenger gathered bridle and touched her hat; and away she spurred, putting her horse to a dead run.