It was one thing to act on the impulse of the moment and quite another to face the consequences.

Now that the prisoner was safe in the corn-crib, she wondered somewhat uneasily just what her father would say when he found out what she had done to protect the berry patch.

But just now he was safe in the upper orchard with old Mr.Weaver, deep in apple culture, and she thought she could get rid of the trespasser before he returned.
Mrs.Gorham was in the kitchen putting up peaches.

Her voice came with droning, old-fashioned sweetness through the screen door.
"When I can read my title dear To mansions in the skies, I'll bid farewell to every fear, And wipe my weeping eyes." Kit slipped around the side drive behind the house out to the hill road.
Mr.Hicks would have to come from Gilead Green in this direction, and here she sat on one of the high entrance posts, waiting and cogitating.
The woodbine that clambered over the two high, white posts was still green, but scrambling along the ground were wild blackberry runners just turning a rich brown crimson.
The minutes passed and still Mr.Hicks failed to appear.

If Kit could have visualized his journey hither, she might have beheld him, lingering here and there along the country roads, stopping to tell the news to any neighbor who might be working out his road tax in the lull of the season between haying and harvest time.