He felt sure that Baumberger's ears were pricked toward the sound of his footsteps, and he made them purposely audible.
"Hello, Mother Hart," he called out cheerfully to Phoebe, pottering down in the coolness.

"Any cream going to waste, or buttermilk, or cake ?" He went down to her, and laid his hand upon her shoulder with a caressing touch which brought tears into her eyes.

"Don't you worry a bit, little mother," he said softly.

"I think we can beat them at their own game.
They've stacked the deck, but we'll beat it, anyhow." His hand slid down to her arm, and gave it a little, reassuring squeeze.
"Oh, Grant, Grant!" She laid her forehead against him for a moment, then looked up at him with a certain whimsical solicitude.

"Never mind our trouble now.