September was waning; the thimbleberries had been picked, Vale scarcely knew how. Mrs. Orde and the other village women and boys had been faithful, and Jammery and Fawnie picked from dawn to dark, but there had been times when they could not keep up to the bountiful crop, and over-ripe shipments had been sent down at the railway station that had oozed juice in a purple stream straight across the platform.
Now mellow pears hung in proud fruition. Every now and again one would drop with a soft thump on the golden stubble beneath the pear trees to be instantly pierced by the voracious beak of some attentive fowl. Mounds of red and green and yellow apples were piled beneath the orchard trees. The men worked all day packing barrels for shipping. A large portion were to be stored in the apple-house for winter use, and to sell as prices rose. The defective were stored in the barn for the stock, and, last of all, the pigs would be turned into the orchard to clean up the ground for themselves.
It was a happy time at Grimstone; rough jokes were shouted from tree to tree, Old Country songs were sung as the tops were hammered into barrels, even Mrs. Machin relaxed and carried a brimming jug of cider to the thirsty men, Phœbe's blue dress gleamed bright as a bit of the sky among the branches of a Greasy Pippin tree.
Grace Jerrold had been home for a month. The tennis
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