“Which way were you going?” asked Mrs. Flint.

“By the warren.”

“Let me see! Oh yes, the cows are in the gin close. But they’re not up yet. But the gate’s locked, you’ll have to climb.”

“I can climb,” said Connie.

“Perhaps I can just go down the close with you.”

They went down the poor, rabbit-bitten pasture. Birds were whistling in wild evening triumph in the wood. A man was calling up the last cows, which trailed slowly over the path-worn pasture.

“They’re late, milking, tonight,” said Mrs. Flint severely. “They know Luke won’t be back till after dark.”