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“Humph!” she said, bitterly. “Very well, Lizzie. But if she expects me to go out like Balaam’s ass and eat dandelions, I’d rather starve.”

Neither Aggie nor I is inclined to be suspicious, and although we noticed Tish’s rather abstracted expression that morning, we laid it to the fact that Charlie Sands had been talking about going to the American Ambulance in France, which Tish opposed violently, although she was more than anxious to go herself.

Aggie put in her knitting bag the bottle of blackberry cordial without which we rarely travel, as we find it excellent in case of chilling, or indigestion, and even to rub on hornet stings. I was placing the suitcase, in which it is our custom to carry the chestnuts, in the back of the car, when I spied a very small parcel. Aggie saw it too.

“If that’s the lunch, Tish,” she said, “I don’t know that I care to go.”

“You can eat chestnuts,” said Tish, shortly. “But don’t go on my account. It looks like rain anyhow, and the last time I went to the farm in the mud I skidded down a hill backwards and was only stopped by running into a cow that thought I was going the other way.”

“Nonsense, Tish,” I said. “It hasn’t an idea of raining. And if the lunch isn’t sufficient, there are generally some hens from the Knowles place that lay in your barn, aren’t there?”

“Certainly not,” she said stiffly, although it wasn’t three months since she had threatened to charge the Knowleses rent for their chickens.

Well, I was puzzled. It is not like Tish to be irritable without reason, although she has undoubtedly a temper. She was most unpleasant on the way out, remarking that if the Ostermaiers’s maid continued to pare away half the potatoes, as any fool could see around their garbage can, she thought the church should reduce his salary. She also stated flatly that she considered that the nation would be better off if some one would uncork a gas bomb in the Capitol at Washington, in spite of the fact that my second cousin, once removed, the Honorable J. C. Willoughby, represents his country in its legislative halls.

It is always a bad sign when Tish talks politics, especially since the income tax.

Although it had no significance for us at the time, she did not put her car in the barn as she usually does, but left it in the road. The house was closed, and there was no cool and refreshing buttermilk with which to wash down our frugal repast, which we ate on the porch, as Tish did not offer to unlock the house. Frugal repast it was indeed, consisting of lettuce sandwiches made without butter, as Tish considered that both butter and lettuce was an extravagance. There were, of course, also beans.

Now as it happens, Aggie is not strong and requires palatable as well as substantial food to enable her to get about, especially to climb trees. We missed her during the meal, and I saw that she was going toward the barn. Tish saw it also, and called to her sharply.

“I am going to get an egg,” Aggie replied, with gentle obstinacy. “I am starving, Tish, and I am certain I heard a hen cackle. Probably one of the Knowles’s chickens—-“

“If it is a Knowles’s chicken,” Tish said, virtuously, “its egg is a Knowles’s egg, and we have no right to it.”

I am sorry to relate that here Aggie said: “Oh, rats!” but as she apologized immediately, and let the egg drop, figuratively, of course, peace again hovered over our little party. Only momentarily, however, for, a short time after, a hen undoubtedly cackled, and Aggie got up with an air of determination.

“Tish,” she said, “that may be a Knowles’s hen or it may be one belonging to this farm. I don’t know, and I don’t give a–I don’t care. I’m going to get it.”