Floyd came near and leaned upon the fence. "Would you like to have that peach?" he asked. "I think I could get it."
She turned and looked at him with disconcerting composure. She had a good white complexion, a little freckled, large blue eyes, and a perfectly able mouth.
"Oh, thank you, I don't really care about it," she said. Then, as if to show that she was not quite lacking in appreciation, she smiled. And with the smile her expression of self-sufficiency disappeared, and was succeeded by one of shyness and dependence. Floyd raised his hat and started away.
"Do you suppose," she called after him, in a hesitating voice, "you could tell me if it was really ripe?"
He turned and she was smiling at him, with a more open friendliness. He entered the yard and stretched his hand up for the peach, but with the tips of his fingers he could barely touch it. "Usually a ripe peach drops when you shake the branch," he said. "This is so black you can't tell by looking at it."
"Yes," she answered, "things get awfully smoky up here."
He caught the branch and drew it down.
"I should call it pretty ripe," he said. "It might be better in a day or two. It's a fine big one."
She seemed in doubt, while he waited for the word to pluck it or to let go.
"I wanted it for my mother," she explained. "This is her birthday. It's the only peach there's been on the tree this year,—it's been a bad peach year, you know,—and then anyway things don't grow very well here. I'd been watching it and thinking it might be just about right for her birthday."
"Here," said Floyd, "feel it for yourself."
He dragged the branch down a little more, and standing on tip-toe she made her investigations.
