were two rows of auriculas by the path, very velvety and rich.
“Lovely auriculas,” said Connie.
“Recklesses, as Luke calls them,” laughed Mrs. Flint. “Have some.”
And eagerly she picked the velvet and primrose flowers.
“Enough! Enough!” said Connie.
They came to the little garden gate.
“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.”
They came to the fence, beyond which the young fir wood bristled dense. There was a little gate, but it was locked. In the grass on the inside stood a bottle, empty.
“There’s the keeper’s empty bottle for his milk,” explained Mrs. Flint. “We bring it as far as here for him, and then he fetches it himself.”
“When?” said Connie.