The next morning Angelique, Amedee’s wife, was in the kitchen baking pies, assisted by old Mrs. Chevalier. Between the mixing-board and the stove stood the old cradle that had been Amedee’s, and in it was his black-eyed son. As Angelique, flushed and excited, with flour on her hands, stopped to smile at the baby, Emil Bergson rode up to the kitchen door on his mare and dismounted.

“‘Medee is out in the field, Emil,” Angelique called as she ran across the kitchen to the oven. “He begins to cut his wheat today; the first wheat ready to cut anywhere about here. He bought a new header, you know, because all the wheat’s so short this year. I hope he can rent it to the neighbors, it cost so much. He and his cousins bought a steam thresher on shares. You ought to go out and see that header work. I watched it an hour this morning, busy as I am with all the men to feed. He has a lot of hands, but he’s the only one that knows how to drive the header or how to run the engine, so he has to be everywhere at once. He’s sick, too, and ought to be in his bed.”

Emil bent over Hector Baptiste, trying to make him blink his round, bead-like black eyes. “Sick? What’s the matter with your daddy, kid? Been making him walk the floor with you?”

Angelique sniffed. “Not much! We don’t have that kind of babies. It was his father that kept Baptiste awake. All night I had to be getting up and making mustard plasters to put on his stomach. He had an awful colic. He said he felt better this morning, but I don’t think he ought to be out in the field, overheating himself.”

Angelique did not speak with much anxiety, not because she was indifferent, but because she felt so secure in their good fortune. Only good things could happen to a rich, energetic, handsome young man like Amedee, with a new baby in the cradle and a new header in the field.

Emil stroked the black fuzz on Baptiste’s head. “I say, Angelique, one of ‘Medee’s grandmothers, ‘way back, must have been a squaw. This kid looks exactly like the Indian babies.”

Angelique made a face at him, but old Mrs. Chevalier had been touched on a sore point, and she let out such a stream of fiery PATOIS that Emil fled from the kitchen and mounted his mare.

Opening the pasture gate from the saddle, Emil rode across the field to the clearing where the thresher stood, driven by a stationary engine and fed from the header boxes. As Amedee was not on the engine, Emil rode on to the wheatfield, where he recognized, on the header, the slight, wiry figure of his friend, coatless, his white shirt puffed out by the wind, his straw hat stuck jauntily on............