And Peace, sweet Peace, returned to the household of Becher.
Meanwhile the little man had secured a buggy, and was jogging out into the country. He drove very leisurely, looking about him curiously. Of a sudden he threw down his cigar, and sniffed at the air.
“Buffalo grass, I’ll wager! I’ve heard of it,” and in the instinctive action of every newcomer he sniffed again.
Camilla Maurice sat in front of her tiny house, the late morning sun warm about her; one hand supported a book, slanted carefully to avoid the light, the other held the crank of a barrel-churn. As she read, she turned steadily, the monotonous chug! chug! of the tumbling cream drowning all other sounds.
Suddenly the shadow of a horse passed her 155 and a rough livery buggy stopped at her side. She looked up. Instinctively her hand dropped the crank, and her face turned white; then equally involuntarily she returned to her work, and the chug! chug! continued.
“Does Ichabod Maurice,” drawling emphasis on the name, “live here?” asked a voice.
“He does.” Camilla’s chin was trembling; her answer halted abruptly.
The man looked down at her, genuine amusement depicted upon his face.
“Won’t you please stop your work for a moment, Camilla?”
With the name, one hand made swift movement of deprecation. “Pardon if I mistake, but I take it you’re Camilla Maurice?”