"I will not have them fowls encouraged to come into the barn," exclaimed Mrs. Machin, angrily.
"But they like the berries," protested Vale.
"Well give them the whole mornin's pickin' then. I wash my hands of it." She jumped to her feet.
"Sit down. Sit down," soothed Vale. "I'll take them somewhere else. This young Indian can help me shoo them out."
"I'll help you," cried Phœbe.
"You'll do nothing of the sort," said Mrs. Machin. "I never see such a girl. She'd sooner do anything under the sun than her proper work. Here, Fawnie, help Mr. Vale scare these hens away and don't set them floppin' over the berries neither."
The young girl set down the carrier she had brought and began gently to urge the fowls through the door. Derek went ahead dropping berries before them. He saw that she was the girl he had watched the night before, whose shining brown-black hair had fallen about her wet shoulders. He scarcely glanced at her but led the way around the barn towards the poultry house, which was partitioned by wire netting from the byre.
"I think we had better put them inside," he said, "and shut the door or they will follow us straight back to the berries." He opened the half-door and entered the poultry-house backwards. He set the remainder of the basket of berries in the straw on the floor. Instantly it was covered by a tangle of wings, beaks, and wattles. He shut the door and smiled at the girl. "That was neatly done. They're all in, I think."
The open windows looked over a stream and a flat meadow where the sheep were grazing.
"The little new lambs are awful pretty," she said in a soft, husky voice.
