On the evening of the day of Alexandra's call at the Shabatas', a heavy rain set in. Frank sat up until a late hour reading the Sunday newspa-pers. One of the Goulds was getting a divorce, and Frank took it as a personal affront. In printing the story of the young man's mar-ital troubles, the knowing editor gave a suffi-ciently colored account of his career, stating the amount of his income and the manner in which he was supposed to spend it. Frank read English slowly, and the more he read about this divorce case, the angrier he grew. At last he threw down the page with a snort. He turned to his farm-hand who was reading the other half of the paper.
"By God! if I have that young feller in de hayfield once, I show him someting. Listen here what he do wit his money." And Frank began the catalogue of the young man's reputed extravagances.
Marie sighed. She thought it hard that the Goulds, for whom she had nothing but good will, should make her so much trouble. She hated to see the Sunday newspapers come into the house. Frank was always reading about the doings of rich people and feeling outraged. He had an inexhaustible stock of stories about their crimes and follies, how they bribed the courts and shot down their butlers with impunity whenever they chose. Frank and Lou Bergson had very similar ideas, and they were two of the political agitators of the county.
The next morning broke clear and brilliant, but Frank said the ground was too wet to plough, so he took the cart and drove over to Sainte-Agnes to spend the day at Moses Mar-cel's saloon. After he was gone, Marie went out to the back porch to begin her butter-making. Abrisk wind had come up and was driving puffy white clouds across the sky. The orchard was sparkling and rippling in the sun. Marie stood looking toward it wistfully, her hand on the lid of the churn, when she heard a sharp ring in the air, the merry sound of the whetstone on the scythe. That invitation decided her. She ran into the house, put on a short skirt and a pair of her husband's boots, caught up a tin pail and started for the orchard. Emil had already be-gun work and was mowing vigorously. When he saw her coming, he stopped and wiped his brow.
His yellow canvas leggings and khaki trousers were splashed to the knees.
"Don't let me disturb you, Emil. I'm going to pick cherries. Isn't everything beautiful after the rain? Oh, but I'm glad to get this place mowed! When I heard it raining in the night, I thought maybe you would come and do it for me to-day. The wind wakened me.
Didn't it blow dreadfully? Just smell the wild roses! They are always so spicy after a rain.
We never had so many of them in here before.
I suppose it's the wet season. Will you have to cut them, too?""If I cut the grass, I will," Emil said teas-ingly. "What's the matter with you? What makes you so flighty?""Am I flighty? I suppose that's the wet sea-son, too, then. It's exciting to see everything growing so fast,--and to get the grass cut!
Please leave the roses till last, if you must cut them. Oh, I don't mean all of them, I mean that low place down by my tree, where there are so many. Aren't you splashed! Look at the spider-webs all over the grass. Good-bye.
I'll call you if I see a snake."
She tripped away and Emil stood looking after her. In a few moments he heard the cher-ries dropping smartly into the pail, and he began to swing his scythe with that long, even stroke that few American boys ever learn.
Marie picked cherries and sang softly to herself, stripping one glittering branch after another, shivering when she caught a shower of rain-drops on her neck and hair. And Emil mowed his way slowly down toward the cherry trees.
That summer the rains had been so many and opportune that it was almost more than Shabata and his man could do to keep up with the corn; the orchard was a neglected wilder-ness. All sorts of weeds and herbs and flowers had grown up there; splotches of wild larkspur, pale green-and-white spikes of hoarhound, plantations of wild cotton, tangles of foxtail and wild wheat. South of the apricot trees, cor-nering on the wheatfield, was Frank's alfalfa, where myriads of white and yellow butterflies were always fluttering above the purple blos-soms. When Emil reached the lower corner by the hedge, Marie was sitting under her white mulberry tree, the pailful of cherries beside her, looking off at the gentle, tireless swelling of the wheat.
"Emil," she said suddenly--he was mowing quietly about under the tree so as not to disturb her--"what religion did the Swedes have away back, before they were Christians?"Emil paused and straightened his back. "Idon't know. About like the Germans', wasn't it?"Marie went on as if she had not heard him.
"The Bohemians, you know, were tree wor-
