He came up to the Niede house through an orchard. A row of beehives, warped gray cubes, ranged on trestles beside the wall; the bees were a cozy wind all around. A thick cherry tree was turning a slow lime-yellow under the ripening sun. Dan climbed the wall. Robins flipped up from the garden as he came.

Uncle Otto was sitting in an old green rocker close against the shaded well-curb. A shaggy dog, lying beside him, lifted its head. Uncle Otto seemed asleep; his fat belly rose like a pudding with each slow pressure of his breathing. He opened his eyes and gazed calmly at Dan. His hand went up to caress a white beard. “Ach,” he said, “it is young Bale. No hat mit, and it is struck dead by de sun.”

“Good-day, Mr. Spohn.”

The old man motioned clumsily toward the well-curb. “Down sitzen. De little Amelia on der locomotive mit, and says it is not killed by de scalpers, west.”

“No,” he said, “I didn’t get killed.”

“Old man,” nodded Uncle Otto, solemnly, “he is die.”

“Yes. We’ve just buried him up at Ever Green.”

Otto Spohn shuddered up out of his chair. His feet were wide and bare and very soiled. “I have it buttermilk, now,” he offered.

“Thanks. If you don’t mind, I’ll take a drink of water instead.”

“Is bad,” declared Otto, “and in der blood it makes so—so—” He struggled awhile, hunting for a word, then shook his head and padded over to the gaping slant of the root cellar. He went down the mossy steps very painfully, holding to the crooked casing above him.

Dan let the chain down into the well. Far below he could see a round dollar of blue in which his head and shoulders were framed. The bucket sucked into the water with a hollow splash, and made a shimmering puzzle of the deep illusion … He hauled it up, and drank. The old dog at his feet sighed, turned over, and went to sleep again.

Uncle Otto came up out of the cellar with a brown pitcher in his hand. “Everybody is die sometime,” he said. He shook his head and drank mournfully. “Maybe too der alt Otto Spohn, once.” He gurgled into the pitcher again, and set the empty vessel down on the curb. Thin buttermilk dripped from drenched tufts of his beard. “And comes maybe to see de little Amelia, young man.” He tried to look very wise.

“I was just walking,” said Dan. He looked toward the barn and saw Henry Niede, Otto’s nephew and the father of Amelia, standing there with a bucket in his hand, gazing suspiciously at him. “Oh, the devil!” he thought. “That ignorant Dutch savage is afraid somebody’s going to seduce his little pullet.” He stood up. “Thanks for the water, Uncle Otto. Danke schön.”