“It was good of you,” she said.

“Good of me?” He met her approbation almost haughtily; then he impulsively added:  “I always liked Uncle Ish—­and he reminds me of old times.”

She turned frankly to him.  In the noble poise of her head she had seemed strangely far off; now she appeared to stoop.

“Of our old times?”

Her cordial eyes arrested him.

“Of yours and mine,” he answered.  “Do you remember the hare traps he set for us and the straw mats he taught us to plait?  Once you said you had stolen a watermelon to save Jake a whipping, and he found you out—­do you remember?”

He pressed the recollections upon her eagerly, almost violently.

Eugenia shook her head, half laughing.

“No, no,” she said; “but I remember you carried me home once when I had hurt my foot, and you jumped into the ice pond to save my kitten, and—­”

“You shared your lunch with me at school,” he broke in.

“And you dug me a little garden all yourself—­”

“And you bought me a Jew’s harp on my birthday—­”

“And you always left half the eggs in a bird’s nest because I begged you to—­”

“And you were an out and out angel,” he concluded triumphantly.

“An angel, black-haired and a tomboy?”

He assented.  “A little tyrannical angel with a temper.”

Her confessions multiplied.

“I scratched your face once.”

“Yes.”

“I got mad and smashed your best hawk’s egg.”

“You did.”

“I threw your fishing line into the brook when you wouldn’t let me fish.”

“I have never seen it since.”

“I was horrid and mean.”

“Such were your angelic characteristics.”

She thoughtfully swung the basket on her arm, her white sleeve fluttering above her wrist.  Her head, with its wave, from the clear brow, of dead-black hair, was bent frankly towards him.

“It has been so long since I saw you,” she said suddenly, “and when I last saw you, you were horrid, not I.”

He flushed quickly.

“I was a brute,” he admitted.

“And you hurt me so, I cried all night.”

“Not because you cared?” he asked breathlessly.

“Of course not—­because I didn’t care a—­a rap.  I cried for the fun of it.”

He was sufficiently abashed.

“If I had known—­” he began, and stopped.

“You might have known!” she flashed out.

He was at a disadvantage, which he admitted by a blank regard.

“But things were desperate then, and—­”

“So were you.”

“Not as desperate as I might have been.”

In her equable unconsciousness she threw off the meaning of his retort.

“But I like desperateness.”

She had crossed the threshold and stood now in the ambient glow, gazing across the quiet pasture, where a stray sheep bleated.  She reached up and broke a bunch of red leaves from the oak, fastening them in her belt as they descended the narrow path.