The Sharroe family had promised to pick fruit at Grimstone that summer. They were expected any day; and it was high time they came, for under every strawberry leaf red berries winked ripely, growing redder hour by hour. The weather had become hot and dry; a strong wind blew the sandy dust in clouds from the driveway all day till sundown, when it fell, leaving the air heavy and oppressive.
Vale was in his bedroom, washing, and brushing his hair before going to Durras to spend the evening. He heard the sound of voices, and cries of children on the road, and went to the window, hoping that it might be the Sharroes. That wayward family was indeed turning in at the gate. No imposing figure of Solomon Sharroe led them now, but his squatty wife carrying an immense bundle; and there was Fawnie, and Jammery; and Esther and Maggie with their husbands; and Charley and Bobby; and Beulah and Alma (each bearing a baby in her arms) and, last of all, the idiot boy, riding on the back of a brother scarce larger than himself.
Poor, ignorant, innocent children! He had intended having a new cottage built for them this season, but they must once more make shift with the old shack. And little Fawnie. . . . He wondered whether she would want a hen to set this year. He remembered her little, round, coffee-
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