“Mother is going away for all day with grandfather,” I said slowly, as I examined their knees.  “Even though I never told you not to do it, if you had stopped to think, you would have known it was wrong to crawl through the pipes.”

“But, Barbara,” argued Ian, as we reached the porch, “it wasn’t us that crawled, it was moles, and they just digs right ahead and turns up the ground and flowers and everything, and never thinks things, do they, grandpop?”

“Martha will take you in,” I said, steadying my voice with difficulty, “and bathe your knees and let you rest a while before she dresses you again.  Martha, please put away those stockings for me to mend when I return; I cannot ask Effie to darn such holes for two little moles; she is only engaged to sew for boys.”

“But, mother, you don’t like to sew stockings; it makes you tight in your chest.  I heard you tell father so,” objected Richard, while Ian’s face quivered and reddened, and he pounded his fists together, saying to himself, “Barbara shall not sit in the house and mend moles’ stockings.  I won’t let her,” showing that they were both touched in a tender spot.

Father only laughed when they went in, and said:  “I’m glad you didn’t do anything more than that to the little chaps, daughter; it’s only a bit of boy life and impulse working in them, after all; their natural way of cooling the ‘sweating of the corn.’” Then we drove away through the lanes draped with birch tassels and willow wands, while bloodroot and marshmarigold kept pace in the runnels, and I heard the twitter of the first barn-swallow of the year.

As we drove along we talked or were silent without apology and according to mood; and as father outlined his route to me, I resolved that I would call upon Horace Bradford’s mother, for our way lay in that direction.

Many things filled father’s mind aside from the beauty of the perfect April day, that held even the proper suggestion of hidden showers behind the curtain of hazy sunshine.  The sweating of the human corn that came under father’s eye was not always to be cured by air and sun, or rather, those who turned uneasily would not accept the cure.

The germ of unrest is busy in the village this spring.  Not that it is wholly new, for unrest is wherever people congregate.  But this year the key is altered somewhat.  The sight of careless ease, life without labour, and a constant change of pleasures, that obtain in the Bluff Colony, is working harm.  True, the people can always read of this life in book and paper, but to come in direct contact is another thing.  Father said the other day that he wished that conservative country places that had lived respected and respectable lives for years could have the power to socially quarantine all newcomers before they were allowed to purchase land and set a pace that lured the young cityward at any cost.  I, too, realize that the striving in certain quarters is no longer for home and love and happy times, but for something new, even if it is merely for the sake of change, and that this infection of social unrest is quickly spreading downward from the Bluffs, touching the surface of our little community, if not yet troubling its depths.