The shade was gracious, the fragrance
alluring. At a distance the voices of singing negroes came to us.
Presently we came to a fallen apple tree, a giant perhaps planted there
generations before. We seated ourselves here, and we should have been
happy, for we were young, and all about us was sweet and comforting.
Yet, on my honor, I would rather at that moment have been talking to my
mother than to Grace Sheraton. I did not know why.
For some time we sat there, pulling at apple blossoms and grass stems,
and talking of many things quite beside the real question; but at last
there came an interruption. I heard the sound of a low, rumbling bellow
approaching through the trees, and as I looked up I saw, coming forward
with a certain confidence, Sir Jonas, the red Sheraton bull, with a ring
in his nose, and in his carriage an intense haughtiness for one so
young. I knew all about Sir Jonas, for we had bred him on our farm, and
sold him not long since to the Sheratons.
Miss Grace gathered her skirts for instant flight, but I quickly pushed
her down. I knew the nature of Sir Jonas very well, and saw that flight
would mean disaster long before she could reach any place of safety.
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