"Yes, aren't they?" He stared openly at her now, trying to recapture the sensation of the night before. But now he saw only a pretty Indian girl whose straight little body was covered by a coarse blue dress, who had an empty berry-basket tied on her stomach, and whose pouting lips were stained by the fruit to a brighter red. There was no mystery now, no thrill, but she was amusing; and those fawn's eyes of hers . . . they called her Fawnie . . . and that round coffee-coloured neck with the soft lock on the nape. . . .
"I like eggs," she was drawling, while she peered into the nests. "Here's a big brown one—as hot as hot—" she put it in his hand. "That ole black hen laid it. She's mad because I took it."
He dropped the warm egg in her berry basket. "Keep it," he said, "and cook it for your tea, Fawnie."
"Here's five more. All white. I do like white eggs. They're jus' laid too. Hot as hot. Feel."
"Take them, too. But don't mention it to Mrs. Machin." He flushed as he said this. He was really afraid of her then . . . no—not afraid, but he did not want her interference.
"Tell you what I'll do! I'll set them. You jus' lend me this ole black hen that's all rumpled up cluckin' an' I'll take her up to the shack an' set her and get some nice little chicks, eh?" Her eyes sparkled, he could see his face reflected in them . . . useless for him to resist dark-eyed little girls. . . . "Take her then," he said, weakly. Good Lord, she was only seventeen! If she wanted a hen to set, why not?
They chased the hen, caught her; Fawnie pressed her firmly against her side while they searched for more eggs. In the horse-stable they found seven—five on a shelf inside
