In her eyes traces of that same terror remained until suddenly the Golden Bird stepped proudly out of the bushes with the Ladies Bird, clucking and scratching along behind him.  He had led the family out into the pasture and was now wisely returning them to the barn before the setting of the sun.  I thought I had never seen him look so handsome, and no wonder his conquest was immediate.

“Oh, how beautiful,” exclaimed Polly, while all restraint left her young face and body as she fell on her knees before the Sultan.  “Chick, chick, chick,” she wooed, in the words that Pan had used to command, and with a delight equal to hers in the introduction, the Bird came toward her.  “Oh, please, sir, Mr.—­Mr. Berry, get me some corn quick—­quick!  I want to squeeze him once,” she demanded of Matthew, confident where she had before been fearful.  His response was long-limbed and enthusiastic, so that in a few seconds Mr. G. Bird stood pecking grains from her hand.  The spectacle was so lovely that I was not at all troubled by twinges of jealousy, but enjoyed it, for even at that early moment I think I felt a mercenary interest in seeing the friendship between the Golden Bird and the Apple-Blossom sealed.  In her I psychologically scented an ally, and I enjoyed the hug bestowed upon him fully as much or even more than he did.  It was a lovely picture that the kiddie made as she knelt at our feet with the white fluff balls and wings whirring and clucking around her.

“Yes; let’s go into the chicken business, Ann,” said Matthew, as his eyes danced with artistic pleasure.  “You love ’em, don’t you, Miss—­Miss Corn-tassel?” he asked, with teasing delight in his voice as well as in his eyes.

“Yes sir,” she answered as she looked up at him merrily, all fear of him gone.

“Say, what do you think of going into the business with your Uncle Matthew if Ann refuses to sell a half interest in hers to me?” he asked of her in his jolly booming voice, with a smile many inches wide across his face.  “I’ll put up the capital, you put up the work, and we’ll take all the prizes away from Ann.”

“I don’t want to take the prizes from Miss Ann.  I’d rather have Reds so we could both get ribbons,” she answered as she dimpled up at me as affectionately as if she had tagged at my gingham skirts at our sixth and second years.

“Reds it shall be, Corn-tassel, and I’ll be back with them as soon as an advertisement in the daily papers can find them for me.  I’ll start the search right now,” said Matthew, teasing the kiddie as if he had known her all his life, but with an expression turning to the genuine poultry business enthusiasm.  “You and Ann come on down to the gate with me in the car and we’ll talk—­”