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Billy ran off full of vague expectation born of his mother’s smile. No one in all the country round, not even Harold Prettyman, whose father had the finest farm in Vine County, had such a splendid place to play as the Bennetts’ back lot that sloped down to Runa Creek. As Billy slammed the gate and bounded out on a huge boulder that hung over the creek, a sounding cheer greeted him from below.,At this juncture there was a knock at the door. It was Howard Eliot who had called for Nell.,“She’ll be all right. May Nell and me—I—we took our lunch and went over to Potter’s pasture. Shoot! She’s waiting now! I hope the poor little kiddie—little girl—eats, don’t wait for me,—she an’ Bouncer.”,She put back his tumbled hair, looked long into his eyes, realizing with a shock that she was looking up. Her little boy was gone.,“All right Lize, I’ll jist make a note of that.”,He laughed coarsely. “George Smith’s kid, all right. You’ve got the same high way with you.”,“Well, I must get at my job, too. That’s thinking up things. You fellers do your work an’ get your money; but I got to rustle that money or bust.”,“I hope my breakfast won’t be quite so—”,“Suppose you go down to the creek,” she replied with a peculiar smile. “May Nell and the twins went there some time ago. Harold, too.”,“This isn’t so bad,” he continued, as he led her into a sunny upper chamber that looked on the mountain in the rear. “And it’ll be all over in a day or so; you’ll see your father,—on the square you will, little kid. Do you think you’ll scream? You’d better not.” He put his hand under her chin to lift her face, and she was glad he wore gloves.,“Just like a football champion,” Billy interrupted.,He looked at the beaming faces, at the beautiful table with Jean’s great pagoda cake in the centre, the dates, 1893-1906, in evergreen; at the flowers everywhere; at the dishes,—they usually ate from vine leaves at their out-of-door feasts,—at the paper napkins folded fantastically and hovering over the table like gay butterflies. His eloquent face told his surprise, his gratitude, his delight. He opened his mouth to speak some fitting word, but it wouldn’t come. He tried again, for he felt the occasion called for something formally appreciative. But only a whimsical idea flitted into his mind; and he sang back—.