“He had a good many odd ideas,” said the general, “but he is dead now, poor man.”

“He raised up my dear father when he was struck down with paralysis,” murmured Aunt Griselda.

When dinner was over the general returned to the front porch, and Eugenia and the puppy went with Bernard to the orchard to look for green apples.

They started out in single file; Bernard, a bright-faced, snub-nosed boy with a girlish mouth, a little in advance, Eugenia following, and the puppy at her heels.  On the way across the meadow, where myriads of grasshoppers darted with a whirring noise beneath the leaves of coarse mullein plants or the slender, unopened pods of milkweed, the puppy made sudden desperate skirmishes into the tangled pathside, pointing ineffectually at the heavy-legged insects, his red tongue lolling and his short tail wagging.  Up the steep ascent of the orchard a rocky trail ran, bordered by a rail fence.  From the point of the hill one could see the adjoining country unrolled like a map, olive heights melting into emerald valleys, bare clearings into luxuriant crops, running a chromatic scale from the dry old battlefields surrounding Kingsborough to the arable “bottoms” beside the enrichening river.

After an unsuccessful search for cherries Bernard climbed a tree where summer apples hung green, and tossed the fruit to Eugenia, who held up her blue skirt beneath the overhanging boughs.  The puppy, having dodged in astonishment a stray apple, went off after the silvery track of a snail.

“That’s enough,” called Bernard presently, and he descended and filled his pockets from Eugenia’s lap.  “They set my teeth on edge, anyway.  Got any salt?”

Eugenia drew a small folded envelope from her pocket.  Then she threw away her apple and pointed to the little brook at the foot of the hill.  “There’s that red-winged blackbird in the bulrushes again.  I believe it’s got a nest.”

And they started in a run down the hillside, the puppy waddling behind with shrill, impertinent barks.

At the bottom of the hill they lost the blackbird and found Nicholas Burr, who was lying face downwards upon the earth, a fishing line at his side.

“He’s crying,” said Eugenia in a high whisper.

Nicholas rolled over, saw them, and got up, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt.

“There warn’t nobody lookin’,” he said defiantly.

“You’re too big to cry,” observed Bernard dispassionately, munching a green apple he had taken from his pocket.  “You’re as big as I am, and I haven’t cried since I was six years old.  Eugie cries.”

“I don’t!” protested Eugenia vehemently.  “I reckon you’d cry too if they made you sit in the house the whole afternoon and hem cup-towels.”

“I’m a boy, Miss Spitfire.  Boys don’t sew.  I saw Nick Burr milking, though, one day.  What made you milk, Nick?”

“Ma did.”

“I’d like to see anybody make me milk.  You’re jes’ the same as a girl.”