Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard. Eleanor Farjeon

and it made an arc clean over the tree and fell in a distant corner by the hedge. So she ran quickly to recover it for him, and he ran likewise, and they stooped and rose together, she with the apple in her hands, he with his hands on hers. At which she blushed a little, but held fast to the fruit.

      "What!" said Martin Pippin, "am I never to have my apple?"

      She answered softly, "Only when I am satisfied, as you promised."

      "And are you not? What have I left undone?"

      Joan: Please, Master Pippin. What did the young King look like?

      Martin: Fool that I am to leave these vital things untold! I shall avoid this error in future. He was more than middle tall, and broad in the shoulders; and he had gray-blue eyes, and a fresh color, and a kind and merry look, and dark brown hair that was not always as sleek as he wished it to be.

      Joan: Oh!

      Martin: With this further oddity, that above the nape of his neck was a whitish tuft which, though he took great pains to conceal it, continually obtruded through the darker hair like the cottontail on the back of a rabbit.

      Joan: Oh! Oh!

      And she became as red as a cherry.

      Martin: May I have my apple?

      Joan: But had not he a—mustache?

      Martin: He fondly believed so.

      Joan (with unexpected fire): It was a big and beautiful mustache!

      Martin (fervently): There was never a King of twenty years with one so big and beautiful.

      She gave him the apple.

      Martin: Thank you. Will you, because I have answered many questions, now answer one?

      Joan: Yes.

      Martin: Then tell me this—what is your quarrel with men?

      Joan: Oh, Master Pippin! they say that one and one make two.

      Martin: Is this possible? Good heavens, are men such numskulls! When they have but to go to the littlest woman on earth to learn—what you and I well know—that one and one make one, and sometimes three, or four, or even half-a-dozen; but never two. Fie upon these men!

      Joan: I am glad you think I am in the right. But how obstinate they are!

      Martin: As obstinate as children, and should be birched as roundly.

      Joan: Oh! but—You would not birch children.

      Martin: You are right again. They should be coaxed.

      Joan: Yes. No. I mean—Good night, dear singer.

      Martin: Good night, dear milkmaid. Sleep sweetly among your comrades who are wiser than we, being so indifferent to happy endings that they would never unpadlock sorrow, though they had the key in their keeping.

      Then he took her hands in one of his, and put his other hand very gently under her chin, and lifted it till he could look into her face, and he said: "Give me the key to Gillian's prison, little Joan, because you love happy endings."

      Joan: Dear Martin, I cannot give you the key.

      Martin: Why not?

      Joan: Because I stuck it inside your apple.

      So he kissed her and they parted, and lay down and slept; she among her comrades under the apple-tree, and he under the briony in the hedge; and the moon came out of her dream and watched theirs.

      With morning came a hoarse voice calling along the hedge:

      "Maids! maids! maids!"

      Up sprang the milkmaids, rubbing their eyes and stretching their arms; and up sprang Martin likewise. And seeing him, Joscelyn was stricken with dismay.

      "It is Old Gillman, our master," she whispered, "come with bread and questions. Quick, singer, quick! into the hollow russet before he reaches the hole in the hedge."

      Swiftly the milkmaids hustled Martin into the russet tree, and concealed him at the very moment when the Farmer was come to the peephole, filling it with his round red face and broad gray fringe of whiskers, like the winter sun on a sky that is going to snow.

      "Good morrow, maids," quoth old Gillman.

      "Good morrow, master," said they.

      "Is my daughter come to her mind yet?"

      "No, master," said little Joan, "but I begin to have hopes that she may."

      "If she do not," groaned Gillman, "I know not what will happen to the farmstead. For it is six months now since I tasted water, and how can a man follow his business who is fuddled day and night with Barley Wine? Life is full of hardships, of which daughters are the greatest. Gillian!" he cried, "when will ye come into your senses and out of the Well-House?"

      But Gillian took no more heed of him than of the quacking of the drake on the duckpond.

      "Well, here is your bread," said Gillman, and he thrust a basket with seven loaves in it through the gap. "And may to-morrow bring better tidings."

      "One moment, dear master," entreated little Joan. "Tell me, please, how Nancy my Jersey fares."

      "Pines for you, pines for you, maid, though Charles does his best by her. But it is as though she had taken a vow to let down no milk till you come again. Rack and ruin, rack and ruin!"

      And the old man retreated as he had come, muttering "Rack and ruin!" the length of the hedge.

      The maids then set about preparing breakfast, which was simplicity itself, being bread and apples than which no breakfast could be sweeter. There was a loaf for each maid and one over for Gillian, which they set upon the wall of the Well-House, taking away yesterday's loaf untouched and stale.

      "Does she never eat?" asked Martin.

      "She has scarcely broken bread in six months," said Joscelyn, "and what she lives on besides her thoughts we do not know."

      "Thoughts are a fast or a feast according to their nature," said Martin, "so let us feed the ducks, who have none."

      They broke the stale bread into fragments, and when the ducks had made a meal, returned to their own; and of two loaves made seven parts, that Martin might have his share, and to this they added apples according to their fancies, red or russet, green or golden.

      After breakfast, at Martin's suggestion, they made little boats of twigs and leaves and sailed them on the duckpond, where they met with many adventures and calamities from driftweed, small breezes, and the curiosity of the ducks. And before they were aware of it the dinner hour was upon them, when they divided two more loaves as before and ate apples at will.

      Then Martin, taking a handkerchief from his pocket, proposed a game of Blindman's-Buff, and the girls, delighted, counter Eener-Meener-Meiner-Mo to find the Blindman. And Joyce was He. So Martin tied the handkerchief over her eyes.

      "Can you see?" asked Martin.

      "Of course I can't see!" said Joyce.

      "Promise?" said Martin.

      "I hope, Master Pippin," said Jane reprovingly, "that you can take a girl's word for it."

      "I'm sure I hope I can," said Martin, and turned Joyce round three times, and ran for his life. And Joyce caught Jane on the spot and guessed her immediately.

      Then Jane was blindfolded, and she was so particular about not seeing that it was quite ten minutes before she caught Jennifer, but she knew who she was by the feel of her gown; and Jennifer caught Joscelyn, and guessed her by her girdle; and Joscelyn caught Jessica and guessed her by the darn in her sleeve; and Jessica caught Joan, and guessed her by her ribbon; and Joan caught Martin, and guessed him by his difference.

      So then Martin was Blindman, and it seemed as though he would never have eyes again; for though