S

PRING was in the air, and the sunlight soft on the Berkshire slopes, but at half-past ten Michael Rowan left the

To ease his

plow in the furrow and, put ting the saddle on the brown mare, rode leisurely down to the town. conscience, he had persuaded himself that a new coulter for his plow was an absolute necessity; but the truth was that it was spring and Michael still young, with more than the bluebird calling him.

He rode light-heartedly, debating with himself whether he should pass Mary Tyrone's door at a gallop without turning his head, or, riding slowly, should gaze long and sadly toward her windows. They had quarreled on Saturday over a trifle, and on Sunday, driving down to mass, he had seen her coming from church with Tim Mahan. There was usually little that escaped Mary's eyes, but that morning she had not seen Michael. Well, Mary was good company, though he was not in love with her, he told himself; and if she was eager for a scrap, he was not one to disappoint her. It was a part of the joy of living. Michael was a handsome, lithe lad; his few years had brought him no distrust of himself.

He turned into the cross-road that dipped down into the valley, and, coming to the plain, quickened his pace. Just ahead of him, on the left, stood the neat, white farm-house of Johnny James Roche, and Michael, glancing over the level acres to see how far Johnny James had advanced with his plowing, caught sight of a slender, white-gowned girl dancing lightly through the orchard, pursued by a child. He could hear the screaming delight of the child in the game.

"Sure, she 's as light on the sod as nothing at all," thought Michael. "She treads air. Now, who can it be?" Still with his face toward the girl, he pulled his horse into a smart canter, to show that he had a light grace of his own, when under his feet he heard a loud squawk, and swung wide in his saddle as his horse shied. He pulled up sharply and glanced back. Behind him a brown hen lay fluttering in the dust. Michael dropped from his horse. and ran back.

"She's gone," he said; "she 's played tag in the road once too often." He took her up and, passing into the yard, walked toward the front door as Johnny James, a slight, stoop-shouldered man of forty-five, came around the corner of the house. Michael held up his burden.

"I ran over her, Johnny James," he said. "I did n't see her at all."

"God love us! but it's the little speckled hen!" exclaimed Johnny James. He looked about him furtively and then beckoned to Michael. "Quick!" he said in a low voice. "We'll throw her into the bush. If herself sees her, she 'll bite iron."

It was too late. Mrs. Roche, a thin little woman of thirty-five, had come to the door with a look of inquiry on her face; but recognizing Michael, she smiled. Then she saw what he bore, and, throwing her apron over her head, went noisily back into the house. Johnny James took the hen from Michael.

"If you could say you saw her like this, lying in the road," he suggested eagerly; "perhaps-" Michael shook his head.

"I did it, Johnny James," he replied. "I did n't see it at all, but I heard her squawk right under my feet, and when I turned, there she was flopping behind me. You

could hang a stone image on the evidence."

"Oh, well," said Johnny James. He walked to the edge of the orchard and threw the little speckled hen into the hedge; then he came back, and in silence the two stood looking toward the house.

"And now I'll pay anything you say, Johnny James, and then I'll be getting along." Michael said at last.

"Oh, pay!" exclaimed Johnny James, fretfully. "There 's nothing to pay."

The child who had been playing in the orchard peered shyly around the corner of the house, and Michael smiled at her. Then he stared, for the white-gowned girl came into view. She advanced slowly with the hesitating look of one who was expecting to be greeted, but without effusion. But Michael stood staring, and she paused in confusion, bridling a little. At that, Michael sprang forward, and seized both. her hands.

"Rose Mary! Little Rose Mary!" he cried, “sure, it never could be you yourself! And yet I could swear to it on the Book!"

"I've been told it is," she said, smiling. "And you 're Michael Rowan, I know."

"And to think that only four years ago you were a slip of a lass!" he exclaimed. "And now you are this!" She was budding womanhood, spring itself, with her rose-leaf face and her gray Irish eyes. He thought of the slim white birches in his upland woods, of the young fawns that came down to drink at his brook in the first light of dawn.

"And now you'd better go in and tell Mrs. Roche that you 've killed her little speckled hen," Rose Mary said, with a mischievous light in her eyes. She never called her stepmother anything but Mrs. Roche. They had not loved each other, and so Rose Mary had gone away to live with her aunt. She took it kindly that Michael had remembered that she had been away just four years. She had not thought he would.

"I suppose so," he replied, and went bravely toward the house. Rose Mary slipped away, but her father followed Michael.

Mrs. Roche was in the living-room. She had taken the apron from her head, but sat staring toward the window with the face of the tragic Muse.

"If knew how sorry you I am, ma'am, you'd cry on my neck," Michael said at once. "Sure, my heart 's broke. I know it's not just as if it was an ordinary hen, -you'd not lift your eyebrows for the likes of that, but a hen-"

"Oh, I know, I know," broke in Mrs. Roche, impatiently.

"I did n't see her at all," continued Michael. "I had looked up to see if Johnny James was at the plow, and then there she was right under my horse's feet. You know how hens are, zigzagging all over the road. I'd ridden over myself first, given the choice."

"I know, I know," she repeated, "and how the lads are, too, with their heads in the air, seeing nothing. Not that I'm blaming you, Michael; but the little speckled hen! Sure, she knew as much as the first man you 'd meet on the road. And lay! I tell you, you could set the clock by her, she was that regular. May I die to-morrow myself if it was not on Saturday, just two days ago, that I had a cold grip at my heart, remembering I'd not seen her all day; and says I to Johnny James here, 'Sure, I'd miss her more than my own head if she 's gone.' And you know well whether that 's a lie or God's truth." She appealed fiercely to her husband.

Johnny James nodded.

"Aye, that I do," he said solemnly.

"I feel with you, ma'am," said Michael; "and I'd not think of offering pay; but if you 'd kindly let me bring down a pair of my black Orpingtons, I'd not take it so much to heart. They 're the fine birds."

"Are they?" Mrs. Roche said dryly. "And when was it, I'd ask you, Mr. Rowan, that any one could say that Kate Roche was one to go around with her palm out or stood in need of the help of her neighbors? God be praised, Johnny James is a poor, weak creature, sitting here dumb when his lawful wife is called out of her name; but for all that, he 's

kept the roof tight over us and the wolf from the door. And if it was the last word I was to say-"

"I'll be going now," said Michael, rising, a spot of red in each cheek. "I'm sorry; I can say no more." He walked

stiffly out of the house and toward the gate; but, seeing Rose Mary still in the orchard, turned back to speak to her. She smiled as he drew near.

"It 's like coming out into a bit of sunshine to see you once more," he said. "Sure, it would melt stone."

"She gave me the father and mother of a tongue-lashing," he said in a low voice. "You'll be hearing the tail end of it all the rest of the day, I'm thinking; so if you 're going down to the town to-night to see your old friends, I'd like the chance to set myself right in your eyes, Rose Mary."

"I saw you run over the little speckled hen myself," she told him. "You had your head twisted round, with no thought of the road."

"And well you know what twisted it," Michael replied.

"Well, I'm not the first one," she said saucily. "It's common report that no sooner do you walk out with one girl than your head 's twisted over your shoulder to see if you have n't left a better one behind."

"As I had, and found out not ten minutes ago," Michael answered. "But if it was my last word, I 'd say the same that I'm saying now: I'm brought to my knees at last, Rose Mary."

"It's more fitting to tell that to Father O'Leary than to me," retorted Rose Mary. "Sure, he 'll be pleased to hear it-if he believes it."

"He'll believe it—”

"Rose Mary, will you be helping me a bit with the dinner?" called Mrs. Roche from the back door. "It's half dead I am this minute with the pain in my side."

"I'm coming," Rose Mary called back, and turned to go.

"But you'll come down to the town to-night?" asked Michael. "I can't come here."

She looked back and smiled, shaking her head.

"Then I'll come for you," Michael declared. He went out to the road and, mounting his horse, rode homeward, wholly forgetting the plow-coulter.

From the back of Johnny James's farm a little wood road runs down to the town, coming out into a side street near the river. It is a trifle longer than the main road. When Rose Mary, coming down this road at dusk, turned into the side street, she found Michael waiting in the shadow of the bridge. If she was surprised, she gave no sign.

"Did you come down the road this morning just to kill the little speckled hen? You went straight home, you know," was her greeting.

"Little else did I think of after seeing you," Michael replied. "But how is herself this evening?"

"Still dead," replied Rose Mary. "Well you know it 's Mrs. Roche I mean. Has she softened a bit?"

Rose Mary looked up at him and shook her head.

"Poor Michael!" she murmured sympathetically. "You'll have no reputation at all by the end of the week. She'll have a growing grievance, you know; she 'll roll it up like a snowball."

"I know," Michael said gloomily.

"Not that it will make any difference with me," she said shyly, softened by his hurt look.

you

"Bless for that word!" he exclaimed. "I 've looked into the eyes at last that I can trust. From this day I'll see no others."

"Sure, is it, then, all settled but just the small matter of speaking to Father O'Leary?" she said gaily. "You 're a bit fast, Michael Rowan. I've the mind to look into eyes myself for a bit."

"That 's a poor tale!" exclaimed Michael. "Have n't you known me all your life, Rose Mary? Do you mind, when you were only a little tid, how I

used to draw you all the way home from the school here? And-"

"I've not forgotten," Rose Mary said gravely, "nor many another thing, too, that you probably have. But liking and knowing is one thing, and--and what you 're thinking another.'

He looked at her then.

"Is there any one else?" he asked.

"Do you think you 're the only lad in the world, Michael Rowan?" she said.

"I suppose a man always tries to think so when a girl's all the world to him, and more," he answered. His gay look dropped away from him suddenly; he turned his face from her, and in silence they walked slowly through the darkening street. At a gate Rose Mary paused.

"I came down to see Agnes," she explained. "For four years I've not seen her, and we always such friends!"

"She's a good girl," said Michael. He turned and looked at Rose Mary with a brave smile. "I 'm thinking you 're the kind that will choose the best, Rose Mary -always."

"Good night," she said. She opened the gate, and Michael went on; but before he came. to the bend in the street he turned back at the sound of hurrying steps. It was Rose Mary.

"I forgot to say," she began, and then paused. "I forgot to say-"

"Yes," said Michael.

Rose Mary looked up the street as she said hurriedly:

"That was n't honest-about other lads. I've got to say that though it blister my tongue, Michael Rowan. Of course

there 've been many I liked, but not in the way you mean-not one."

"Are you saying that of me, too, Rose Mary?" he asked quickly.

She glanced at him in the confusion of a disconcerting surprise.

"You? I-why, I have n't had time to think of you-just one day," she said. "I was only a child when I knew you, you know. A girl can't change all of a sudden like that." Then she fled.

If Michael had taken heart at her parting, he soon lost it again, for so far as he

was concerned, Rose Mary had apparently disappeared from the face of the earth. For a week, by day, he passed the house at all hours, and at night he watched the roads leading down to the town, but saw not even the flutter of her skirts from afar. On Wednesday, Johnny James driving up from the town, looked straight down his long nose as Michael drove by and had paid no heed to his greeting. Michael stopped the brown mare and stared back.

"It's all herself," he said to himself, wrathfully. "She twists him about as the wind does the weather-cock, and all for the sake of a little peace in the family."

On Sunday morning he was the first one at the door of the church, and when the early service was over, he lingered about. Mary Tyrone saw him this Sunday; she smilingly crossed the road to say:

"I hear Kate Roche caught you riding down a flock of her hens, and when she asked you why you were doing that, you rode your horse at her. Is that why they say Johnny James is looking everywhere for you with a horse-whip?"

Michael flushed angrily, then stepped close to Mary.

"No," he said in a whisper; "I'd not want every one to know, but I told him he has a mind of his own, and he thought it an insult." As Mary laughingly walked away, Michael reconsidered his speech. "Now, why did I say a thing like that?" he muttered. "It will get to Johnny James before night."

Indeed, it reached Johnny James before he drove up to the church half an hour later. Mrs. Roche, her two children, and Rose Mary were with him. With a grim face Michael crossed the road to assist Rose Mary to alight; but her father elbowed him aside, and, leaving his son to put the horses under the shed, hustled Rose Mary into the church. Rose Mary's cheeks were flaming, but she did not lift her eyes from the ground.

"I'm done with women," Michael thought angrily, and possibly to prove it, went to his second service that morning and scarcely turned his eyes from Rose Mary's face.