Bees flew in and out, and one lighted upon the dish of honey in the comb that went so well with the hot biscuit.
She rose and wandered out among the chickens, to pick up little fluffy youngsters one after another, and caress them, to look in the henhouse itself, where several hens were sitting with the pensive expression that accompanies the laying of eggs.

She thought of those other hens, less conventional, who ran away to lay in secret places in the weeds, to accumulate a store against the time when the setting instinct should possess them.
She thought of those cannier, less docile hens and laughed.

She opened a gate into the barnyard, intending to go to the barn for a look at the horses, taking in the duck pond and perhaps the pigs on the way.

Her Uncle George's voice arrested her.
"Susan," he cried.

"Come here." She turned and looked wistfully at him.