“Oh, yes. But that’s all right. I’m always trespassing. I can’t help it. Out there—” she jerked her head in the direction of the fields, “there are signs everywhere you go, ‘No trespassing.’ But by the time I come to ’em I’ve already been trespassing for miles, so I might as well go on. Besides, I’ve often done it purposely just to see what would happen, but nothing ever does.” And having said this in a most reassuring tone, she fished a second apple out of the pocket of her sweater and began to polish it as she had the first. To his horror, Mr. Sheridan saw that those green pockets were bulging.
“Oh, no. I never make myself ill,” said Jane.
“Are you going to eat _all_ those?” he demanded, pointing with his stick at her crammed pockets.
“Well, I could, easily,” said Jane, “but you can have as many as you like. Catch.” And she pulled out a third apple, and tossed it to him. He caught it; but feeling that it was not dignified even to pretend that he wanted it, he laid it down beside him on the bench.
“Try it,” said Jane, “it’s a good one. It’s still wet, because I just picked it up. Mr. Webster has millions, and he _said_ I could take all I wanted. Here, I’ll dry it for you if you don’t want to get your handkerchief all wet.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Sheridan, “I don’t believe I care for it just now.”
Another silence. Then as if the idea had just occurred to her, Jane said almost with alarm,
“_You_ don’t mind my trespassing, do you, Mr. Sheridan?”
“How did you know my name?” he asked in surprise, and at the same time, feeling a trifle flattered. Like most people he was vain enough to be pleased when anyone seemed to know who he was without being told.
“By your stick. Miss Lily said that you had a stick, and that you were youngish.”
“Oh.” A brief pause, during which Mr. Sheridan did not look displeased. Jane, who never missed a change of expression, felt that she had hit upon a happy thread of conversation, and she ventured to commence another apple.
“Who is Miss Lily?” inquired Mr. Sheridan, forgetting that he was not in the least interested in hearing about his fellow creatures—especially the feminine ones.
“Why, Miss Lily Deacon. She lives up there,” Jane jerked her head casually in the direction, “in the first house on the left hand side just as you turn into Sheridan Lane. The one with iron deers on each side of the gate. She’s _very_ pretty. Mrs. Deacon is very fat, but she certainly is what you’d called impressive looking, and she does a lot of good. I mean she’s on committees and things, and _always_ president.”