At this
moment, if it had not been for that unfortunate pitcher, she would have
been reviewing her conversation with Miss Prudence. It _was_ wonderful
about punctuation; how many times a day life was "wonderful" to the
growing child!
Along this road the farmhouses were scattered at long distances, there
was one in sight with the gable end to the road, but the next one was
fully quarter of a mile away; she noted the fact, not that she was afraid
or lonely, but it gave her something to think of; she was too thoroughly
acquainted with the road to be afraid of anything by night or by day; she
had walked to her grandfather's more times than she could remember ever
since she was seven years old. She tried to guess how far the next house
was, how many feet, yards or rods; she tried to guess how many quarts of
blueberries had grown in the field beyond; she even wondered if anybody
could count the blades of grass all along the way if they should try! But
the remembrance of the broken pitcher persisted in bringing itself
uppermost, pushing through the blades of grass and the quarts of
blueberries; she might as well begin to plan how she was to earn another
pitcher! Or, her birthday was coming--in a month she would be fourteen;
her father would certainly give her a silver dollar because he was glad
that he had had her fourteen years. A quick, panting breath behind her,
and the sound of hurrying feet, caused her to turn her head; she fully
expected to meet the gaze of some big dog, but instead a man was close
upon her, dusty, travel-stained, his straw hat pushed back from a
perspiring face and a hand stretched out to detain her.
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