They chatted pleasantly as he drove around the neighborhood for a half an hour, then stopped by the Diedermayer house. All that he had sown that afternoon with such infinite care was as nothing compared to this seed, cast without forethought. “Look here, father,” she said, with a change in her voice, “suppose I won’t stand it?” He regarded her as though this was a new idea. She tore open the envelope and read it. Kneebone made no effort to check the unreasonable merriment of his companions, but rather seemed to encourage it. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. F.
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