but she had read nothing of Jules Verne. She asked instead:—
"Have you known Piers many years? I suppose you have, for you were neighbors, weren't you?"
Pheasant stiffened. She did not answer for a moment, but bent forward plucking at the coarse orchard grass. Then she said in a low voice, "I suppose Eden has told you about me."
"Nothing except that you were a neighbor's daughter."
"Come, now. Don't hedge. The others did, then. Meg—Gran—Uncle Nick?"
"No one," answered Alayne firmly, "has told me anything about you."
"Humph. They're a funny lot. I made sure they'd tell you first thing." She mused a moment, biting a blade of grass, and then added: "I suppose they didn't want to tell you anything so shocking. You're so frightfully proper, and all that."
"Am I?" returned Alayne, rather nettled.
"Well, aren't you?"
"I had not thought about it."
"It was one of the first things I noticed about you."
"I hope it hasn't turned you against me," said Alayne, lightly.
Pheasant reflected, and said she did not think so.
"Then what is it?" persisted Alayne, her tone still light, but her face becoming very serious.
Pheasant picked up one of the mis-shapen apples of the old tree and balanced it on her palm.
"Oh, you're different; that's the principal thing. You don't seem to know anything about real life."
Alayne could have laughed aloud at the answer, that this ignorant little country girl should doubt her experience of life. Yet it was true enough that she did not know life as they in this backwater knew it, where no
