"We'll come across some, I guess, by and by," said Mr. Ringgan; and Fleda settled herself again to enjoy the trees, the fields, the roads, and all the small handiwork of nature, for which her eyes had a curious intelligence. But this was not fated to be a ride of unbroken pleasure.
"Why, what are those bars down for?" she said, as they came up with a field of winter grain. "Somebody's been in here with a wagon. O grandpa! Mr. Didenhover has let the Shakers have my butternuts! the butternuts that you told him they mustn't have."
The old gentleman drew up his horse. "So he has!" said he.
Their eyes were upon the far end of the deep lot, where, at the edge of one of the pieces of woodland spoken of, a picturesque group of men and boys, in frocks and broad-brimmed white hats, were busied in filling their wagon under a clump of the now thin and yellow-leaved butternut trees.
"The scoundrel!" said Mr. Ringgan, under his breath.
"Would it be any use, grandpa, for me to jump down and run and tell them you don't want them to take the butternuts? I shall have so few".
"No, dear no," said her grandfather; "they have got em about all by this time; the mischief's done. Didenhover meant to let 'em have 'em unknown to me, and pocket the pay himself Get up!"
Fleda drew a long breath, and gave a hard look at the distant wagon, where her butternuts were going in by handfuls. She said no more.
It was but a few fields further on, that the old gentleman came to a sudden stop again.
"Ain't there some of my sheep over yonder there, Fleda along with Squire Thornton's?"