“Bet she does it!” said Adam.

“Did you see her?” asked Kate.

“See her!” cried Adam.  “I saw her half a dozen times in an hour. 
She’s in the heart of the town, nothing to do but dress and motor. 
Never saw such a peach of a car.  I couldn’t help looking at it. 
Gee, I wish I could get you one like that!”

“What did you think of her looks?” asked Kate.

“Might pretty!” said Adam, promptly.  “Small, but not tiny; plump, but not fat; pink, light curls, big baby blue eyes and a sort of hesitating way about her, as if she were anxious to do the right thing, but feared she might not, and wished somebody would take care of her.”

Kate threw out her hands with a rough exclamation.  “I get the picture!” she said.  “It’s a dead centre shot.  That gets a man, every time.  No man cares a picayune about a woman who can take care of herself, and help him with his job if he has a ghost of a chance at a little pink and white clinger, who will suck the life and talent out of him, like the parasite she is, while she makes him believe he is on the job, taking care of her.  You can rest assured it will be settled before Christmas.”

Kate had been right in her theories concerning the growing of blue ribbon corn.  At the County Fair in late September Adam exhibited such heavy ears of evenly grained white and yellow corn that the blue ribbon he carried home was not an award of the judges; it was a concession to the just demands of the exhibit.

Then they began husking their annual crop.  It had been one of the country’s best years for corn.  The long, even, golden ears they were stripping the husks from and stacking in heaps over the field might profitably have been used for seed by any farmer.  They had divided the field in halves and Adam was husking one side, Kate the other.  She had a big shock open and kneeling beside it she was busy stripping open the husks, and heaping up the yellow ears.  Behind her the shocks stood like rows of stationed sentinels; above, the crisp October sunshine warmed the air to a delightful degree; around the field, the fence rows were filled with purple and rose coloured asters, and everywhere goldenrod, yellower than the corn, was hanging in heavy heads of pollen-spraying bloom.

On her old pink quilt Little Poll, sound asleep, was lifted from the shade of one shock to another, while Kate worked across her share of the field.  As she worked she kept looking at the child.  She frankly adored her, but she kept her reason and held to rigid rules in feeding, bathing, and dressing.  Poll minded even a gesture or a nod.