Читать книгу: «Dorothy at Skyrie», страница 10

Laughing, yet wholly in earnest, Dorothy had picked a morsel of food on a fork and held it so close to Helena's lips that she had to take it, whether or not. A second morsel followed the first, and the performance was enlivened by a recital of Peter Piper's consumption of the chocolate cake.

Before she knew it Helena was laughing, and likewise before she quite realized it – so swiftly had Dorothy fed and talked – she had made a better meal than at any time since her illness. The food strengthened, for the illness was really past, and seeing her darling recover made Mrs. Montaigne very grateful to the girl whose influence had helped that recovery. Also, this general liking for his own especial friend, as Herbert considered her, fully confirmed the lad in the scheme he had formed, but had not yet broached to his family. Thought he:

"I'll wait a little longer yet, till even the Pater has seen how sweet and unselfish she is, then I'll spring it on the family. If I carry it through – Hurray!"

But though Jim knew of these visits he had not resented them. It was perfectly natural, he supposed, that girls should like other girls; and that puling, sickly-looking, stuck-up daughter of those rich folks – Well, he was glad that Dorothy could show them that a little maid who had once worked alongside himself on a Maryland truck-farm could "hold a candle" with the best of them! Herbert, himself, had not crossed Jim's way. He had gone into camp with some other lads of the Heights and had himself almost forgotten his home in the fun of that outing.

But weeks do pass, no matter how they sometimes seem to drag; and the day came when Jim and Dorothy were seated in Mrs. Calvert's runabout, a gentle horse in the shafts, and themselves en route for that long-dreamed-of circus.

Dorothy carried her money with her. As yet the sum received for Daisy-Jewel remained unbroken. Neither parent would use any of it, each insisting that it was Dorothy's own and that she should expend it as she saw fit: though that this would be for the horse or colt into which the calf had been thus changed was a foregone conclusion.

It had become a standard jest with the ex-postman that she should never go anywhere away from Skyrie without her pocket-book. "In case you might meet the horse of your heart, somewhere along the road. It's the unexpected that happens. You're certain to find Daisy's successor when you're unaware that he, she, or it is near." And to-day he had added:

"A circus is the very place to look for a horse! When you get there stir around and – pick up a bargain, if you can! By all means, take your pocket-book to-day!"

She had kissed his merry lips to stop their teasing but – she had carried the purse! Something unexpected was, in reality, to happen: Despite their long anticipation, this happy pair of youngsters were to fall short of their ambition – they were not to visit the circus.

CHAPTER XVII
ON THE ROAD TO THE CIRCUS

"Ain't this grand, Dorothy? I never did see anybody so good as Mrs. Calvert! She wouldn't hear tell o' my working half the day, though I could well's not, 'cause the circus don't take in till two o'clock. No, sir! She up an' give me the whole day an' said my pay was to go on just the same as if I was hoein' them inguns 'at need it."

"Onions, Jim; not 'inguns,'" corrected Dorothy with a smile. "You are improving fast. I haven't heard you call anybody 'Mis',' for Mrs., in ever so long, and most of the time you keep tight hold of your g's. Yes, she is dear! but you deserve her kindness. Nobody else ever served her so faithfully, she says; not even those old colored servants who love her and – impose on her, too! You look fine, to-day. Those 'store clothes' are mightily becoming and I'm proud of you. But whatever shall we do with a whole day?"

"Mrs. Calvert, she said we was to drive into the town, Newburgh, you know, where the circus is to be at and to a livery stable that knows her. Or the man who keeps it does. We was to put the horse up there an' leave it till time to go home again. Then we was to walk around the city an' see the sights. 'Bout noon she reckoned 'twould be a good plan to go to what they call the 'Headquarters,' where General George Washington lived at, when he fit into the Revolution. I've been readin' about that in the History she give me and I'd admire to stand on the spot he stood on once. There's a big yard around the house and benches for folks to sit on, and a well o' water for 'em to drink; and nobody has to pay for settin' nor drinkin', nary one. All the folks want you to do, and you don't have to do it, you ain't really obleeged, is to go inside a room an' write your name and where you come from in a 'Visitors' Book.' I've been practicing right smart, ever since she told me that, an' I can write my name real plain. What bothers me is to tell where I come from. I don't much like to say the poorhouse, where I was took after my folks died, and I hate to say Mrs. Stott's truck-farm. I haven't got no right to say Riverside nor Deerhurst, 'cause I've only lately come to them places, I've never come from 'em. I – "

"O Jim! Stop 'splitting hairs'!"

Thus arrested in his flow of language, the youth carefully inspected his clothing and failed to perceive the "hairs" in question. Whereupon Dorothy laughed and assured him that she had merely used a figure of speech, and meant: "Don't fuss! Just write 'Baltimore,' as I shall, and have done with it. Funny, Jim, but I just this minute thought that I'm the one who doesn't know where I came from! Well, I'm here now, and what's behind me is none of my business. But, boy, you mustn't put that 'at' after places. It sounds queer, and I hate queer people. Ah! me!"

Jim drove carefully along the fine road with a full appreciation of the beautiful scenery through which it ran, yet in no wise moved to express his admiration of it. He was too happy for words and his soaring thoughts would have amazed even Dorothy, familiar though she had become with his ambitions; and after driving onward for some time in this contented silence he became suddenly aware that his companion was not as happy as he. Her eyes were fixed upon the road and her face had a troubled, preoccupied expression.

"Dolly Chester, what you thinkin' of? Don't you like it? Ain't you glad you come?"

"Why – Jim! How you startled me! Of course I'm glad I come. The whole trip is the most delightful thing; but – what I was thinking of, I'm afraid would make you sneer if I told."

"Tell an' see if it will. I ain't no great hand to make fun of folks – I don't like to be made fun of myself. What was it?"

"The Ghost that haunts Skyrie. Jim – I've seen it! I myself with my own eyes."

He checked his horse in his amazement, and incredulously ejaculated:

"You – don't!"

"Yes, I do. I did. This very last night that ever was; and talk about liking this ride? Huh! I'm more glad than I can say to get away from home just this little while, even. Yet mother and father are left there, and if IT should come and frighten them while I'm not there – O Jim! It scared me almost into a fit. Scared me so stiff and still I could neither move nor speak. Now I'm rather glad I didn't. It may not come again, though It has two or three times."

They were nearly at the top of a long hill and, partly to rest the perfectly untired horse, partly to hear in silence this remarkable story, Jim drew aside into the shade of a wayside tree and commanded:

"Silly Dolly! There ain't no such things; but – out with the hull business, body an' bones!"

"I'm glad to 'out' with it. It's seemed as if I should burst, keeping it all to myself, and the worst is I feel that father wouldn't believe me. There's something else, too. Jim, do you believe that Peter Piper is really harmless? He follows me everywhere I go. He doesn't come near the house because mother doesn't like him and shows that plain enough even for him to understand. She never did like beggars down home in Baltimore, and she's taken a fearful dislike to Peter."

"Stick to what you started to tell; not get a body's ideas all on edge, then switch off onto Peter Piper. As for that poor feller, he won't hurt nobody what don't hurt him. But he ain't a ghost. Tell what you saw."

"Will you promise not to laugh nor – nor disbelieve?"

"I won't laugh an' I will believe – if I can."

"You dear good Jim! I can always rely upon you to help me in my troubles!" cried Dorothy, gratefully.

With comfortable complacency Jim replied: "That's so."

"You know Pa Babcock doesn't work for us any more. He left the next day after the 'Bee.' Sent Alfaretta around to tell us that 'he'd overdone hisself and was obliged to take a vacation.' Why, Jim Barlow, he was engaged to work three days out of each week and he never got in more than one. He was to 'find himself,' which father says means to furnish his own food, and he never brought a single meal. Mother Martha had to cook extra for him every time. We weren't real sorry to have him leave, for we thought it would be easy to get another man, now that Skyrie had been put in such good order. But it wasn't; besides, any that offered asked from two to three dollars a day. Think of that! Why, of course mother couldn't pay that, even if it was haying time and men scarce, as they all told her. She said we must let all the farm alone except just the garden patch and that field of corn which is to feed our stock next winter. Jim, life in the country 'isn't all catnip!' I never, never dreamed that I could work so hard or do so much. Look at my hands, will you?"

She thrust out her little hands, now scarred and blistered by the use of heavy, unfamiliar tools, compared with which her old home "garden set" were mere toys.

For sympathy she received the assurance:

"Won't blister nigh so much, after a spell, and the skin gets tough. Go on with the ghost, will you?"

"I am going on. It's all mixed up with Pa Babcock. If he hadn't left I wouldn't have had to work in the garden nor mother in the cornfield. That tires her awfully, and makes her fearfully cross; so that father and I keep all little worries to ourselves that we can. He even tries to help her hoe those terrible rows of corn that has come up so beautifully and is growing so well. If only the weeds wouldn't grow just as fast! But to see my mother handling a hoe and my father trying to do so too, resting on his crutches and tottering along the row as he works – Jim, it makes me wild! So of course I try to take all care of the garden patch and – of course, I failed. Partly I was afraid to stay out there alone, sometimes, for I might happen any time to look up and there would be Peter Piper staring over the wall at me, or even inside it. Then I have to run in and stop working for awhile. Mother would be angry if she knew and drive him off with harsh words, and though I am afraid of him, too, I can't bear to hurt his feelings. I am really so sorry for him that often I carry my dinner out of doors with me and give it to him, though mother Martha thinks I've taken it because I do so love to eat out under the trees. I can't help feeling that he's hungrier than I am; and I don't think it's wrong because I've never been forbidden nor asked about it. Do you think it is, Jim dear?"

"I ain't judgin' for other folks and I 'low your victuals is your own," answered he.

"That's a horrid word, 'victuals!' It makes me think of 'cold' ones and beggars at the back gate."

"All right. I won't say it again. Get back to that ghost."

"I'm getting. Why hurry so? We have the whole day before us."

"But, Dorothy Chester, that circus takes in at two o'clock!" warned the careful lad.

"And it can't be later than ten now. Jim Barlow – I've been to bed some night, leaving those hateful garden beds all weedy and neglected: and I've got up in the morning and —found – them – in – perfect – order! What do you think of that?"

"Think? Why, 't likely your pa or ma done 'em for you after you was abed."

"No, sir. I might have thought so, too, only they both denied it; nor can I make them believe I didn't do the work myself. So, after I had explained once or twice how it was and they only laughed, I gave up and held my tongue. Mother Martha says that weeds can't pull themselves nor 'cultivators' – even little ones like mine – run over the beds as something certainly did. However, if they won't listen they needn't. I know it's true, though I dare not tell them I've seen the Ghost; because they are both so discouraged and anxious over this farming business that if they found the place was really haunted they'd leave it. Yet, Jim, we can't leave. We mustn't, no matter what. Father came here to get well – his only chance. We haven't enough money to move back to Baltimore nor to live there afterward. We must stay and live with the Ghost. It is the only way. But – O Jim! I've not only seen what It has done in the garden, I've seen It at work there. Seen It with my own two eyes! Now, do you believe?"

"Shucks! Pshaw! You don't!"

Alas! Honest Jim did not believe but he was profoundly sorry for Dorothy, who he felt sure had suffered from too great and unaccustomed labor: and he could only answer according to his own convictions; as he did with added gentleness:

"I think that that there Babcock girl had ought to had her neck wrung 'fore she stuffed any such nonsense into your head, Dolly girl, an' I wish to goodness, just as you did once, 't I 'could make two of myself.' Then I'd make short work of that mite of gardening what seems such a job to you. I – I don't know but I'd ought to quit Deerhurst an' hire myself out to your folks."

"No, no! Oh! no, indeed! You're in the right place now, just the best place to get on as you couldn't do with us."

This opinion was comforting. Jim was so happy in his new home that he had no real desire to exchange it for Skyrie: where he felt his conscience and "duty" would compel him to work so early and late that there would be no time left for his "study." He changed the subject and inquired:

"If you seen It, what did it look like?"

"It was tall, like a man. It was all in some light-colored clothes and it worked as steadily as if It were a machine. But it made very little noise. It didn't want to be heard, I thought. When It had finished It sort of vanished behind the lilac bushes and I thought I saw It crossing a field toward the south meadow. That's where the old 'gold mine' is, that Alfaretta told of, and where she said It lives part of the time. It used to come into the house itself, into the very room father sleeps in now. So she said."

"Huh! She's the foolishest girl I ever heard of. Dorothy, don't you go to takin' up with such a silly thing as her. Huh!"

"Oh! I'm not taking up with her, she's taking up with me! The 'shoe is on the other foot.' But she's real kind and good. She never comes to Skyrie without trying to help in whatever we are doing. Mother thinks she's a splendid girl, even if she is a little forward in her manners. But I haven't told her about the ghost being true. I've told nobody but you, Jim."

Such exclusive confidence was flattering, but the boy was still unconvinced. After a moment of pondering he asked:

"Why didn't your folks see It if you did?"

"Because it was only an accident that I did, either. I had to go down into the kitchen for a drink of water and so saw it through those windows. We all sleep on the other side of the house, away from the garden. That's why."

"All right. Giddap!" commented Jim, driving back into the road and chirruping to the horse, while, having relieved herself of her secret, Dorothy gave herself up entirely to the pleasure of the moment, and soon was eagerly discussing the chances of their finding a suitable animal for their purchase at the circus, as father John had suggested was possible.

A turn of the road soon brought them to a small house standing within a rude inclosure, and at present surrounded by such a concourse of people that both Jim and Dorothy immediately conjectured:

"Another auction! Let's stop and listen."

It was that same Bill Barry who had officiated at Skyrie who now stood on the box here; and, as Jim drove up toward the gate, he immediately recognized the two young people and called out to them:

"Hello, there! How-de-do? Lookin' for somethin' to put your money on? Well, sorry, but all the household stuff's bid off. Jest a-comin' to the prettiest little piece o' horseflesh 't ever you laid your eyes on." Then with a general sweep of his eye over the assemblage, he added for the benefit of all: "This here vandoo just sends the tears to my eyes, hardened old sinner though I am. Auctioning off a poor widow woman's goods ain't no joke, let me tell you. See this pretty little piebald mare? Household pet, she is. Gentle as a kitten, broke to saddle or harness, either one, used to children, got to be sold no matter how the kids' hearts ache, nor the widow's either! Start her up, somebody! How much am I bid for the beautiful calico pony, beloved of a widow and orphans? How – much?"

"Ten dollars!" cried somebody in the crowd and the auctioneer retorted that the bidder must be joking.

Dorothy, listening, flashed one indignant glance over the crowd and stood up in the runabout, resisting Jim's abashed attempts to pull her down upon the seat. She clutched her pocket-book with all her strength, as if he might try to take it from her, and called out in her clear treble:

"Thirty-five dollars!"

A silence that might be felt over that assembly, and no other bid followed Dorothy's. Once, twice, thrice, Mr. Barry solicited a "raise" but none was forthcoming. To nobody else in that company was the pretty, piebald pony worth even half so much money. The creature had been born on the western plains, and while it had a reputation for speed was not strong enough for hard work, such as these other possible bidders required.

"Going, going, gone! Sold to Miss Dorothy Chester for thirty-five dollars, cash down! Now for the cart and harness. How much?"

While waiting offers for these articles the clerk of the auction obligingly led the pony through the gate and fastened its halter to the back of the runabout; whereupon Dorothy's consuming eagerness could hardly wait to count out the seven crisp banknotes which made her the happy possessor of that wonderful pony.

Another moment found her on the ground beside it, patting its neck, smoothing its velvety nostrils, and longing to kiss it with that sudden affection born in her. So absorbed was she in the creature that she noticed nothing further going on about her till somebody politely asked her to "step aside and let us hitch up."

Then she saw that Jim had left the runabout himself and was now between the shafts of a small low wagon, drawing it into the road. Five minutes later he announced:

"We're ready to go now, Dorothy."

"Shall we take the pony with us to the circus? Why are you turning the runabout around to go back the way we came? Newburgh's not in that direction."

"I – I guess we won't finish our trip to Newburgh, to-day, Dolly," he answered with a laugh.

"Why not?"

"Because – 'cause you spent all your money for the horse an' I spent all mine, all 't I've earned yet, for the rig. Which critter'll you drive home, Dorothy? Home it is where we'll eat that nice lunch o' Mrs. Calvert's, 'cause I haven't got a cent left to buy them circus tickets. Which one did you say?"

"My own!" cried the girl, exultantly, as she sprang into the rickety little phaeton and took up the pony's reins.

CHAPTER XVIII
THAT SOUTH MEADOW

When even before mid-day the two vehicles returned to Skyrie both Mr. and Mrs. Chester were too astonished to do more than open their eyes and mouths and wait explanations.

These came with a volubility that was less wonderful in Dorothy than in Jim, but each of the pair seemed to trip the other up with a flood of words, till finally the listeners made out to sift the facts for themselves. Then, while they were wholly delighted by the possession of the pony, mother Martha's prudence was disturbed by the thought of debt, and she promptly demanded to know what Jim had paid for the phaeton and harness.

For a time he stubbornly declined to tell, and it was not till Mrs. Chester brought out her own purse and insisted upon repaying him that he acknowledged:

"Well, if you must know, 'twasn't but fifteen dollars, all told. True. Like Dorothy here I took every cent I had with me an' now I'm powerful glad I did. As for takin' your money, same's sellin' it to you, I shan't. I'm makin' it a present to Dolly an' all of you. If it hadn't been for her I never'd have known Mrs. Calvert nor had the chance of my life. 'Tain't but little, seems if, to return for all you've brought to me. If you don't want to hurt my feelin's and make me stay clean away from Skyrie, you won't say another word on that subject. And I don't want to stay away. I can't, not till some – some things gets straightened out. So, I reckon I'd best go see if there's a good stall in that old barn to put – Say, Dorothy? What you goin' to name the critter, anyway?"

"James Barlow, she is not a 'critter.' She is a perfectly beautiful piebald pony and her name is – Portia!" After which alliterative statement Dorothy rushed toward the lad, intent upon hugging him in gratitude for the gift from which none of them could dissuade him.

But he had had experiences in that line and ungallantly backed away, blushing furiously that these elder people should witness his embarrassment, and covering his confusion by remarking:

"I'm going to the barn now, and you can come with me if you want to. If you do we can eat our dinner outside the door under that shady tree; then, as I've got the hull day give to me, I'd like to go see that mine in the south medder I've heard tell of."

"All right," cheerfully answered the girl, not at all offended by his rebuff of her attentions. "We'll find a place for my Portia and your phaeton, and I think it's perfectly lovely for us to have them, half-and-half, that way, Jim, just think! How little we dreamed of such splendid times together when we were at Miranda Stott's!"

Old "Si Waterman's Folly," as the rumored "mine" was called, seemed to be coming into sudden prominence. For years it had lain unnoticed, but some recent excavations on the other side of the mountain had recalled to the public this long abandoned one at Skyrie. The very first time that Dorothy had the delight of driving her father out in the phaeton, which was so low and comfortable for him to use, they met Friend Oliver Sands upon the road, and he brought up the subject by a roundabout manner all his own.

He had not been present at the "Bee." He had even expressed his disapproval of such an affair, affirming that "nobody should undertake to run a farm unless he knew he could do it." Which might be good sense but influenced few. Indeed, when hearing afterward of the sale whereby Daisy-Jewel was metamorphosed, so to speak, into a pony, he had been angry – as angry as such a benign old gentleman could be.

He had made an unnecessary gift to an unappreciative girl and she had made money out of it; whereas, if things had gone as he expected, it would have been himself who should make it. Hannah had been transformed into a model cow by the simplest of methods, one that he should have been wise enough to try for himself only – he hadn't thought of it. Of course, it was a good thing for him who had advanced money upon the land that Skyrie should be put into good condition, even though it were as temporary as but one day's labor would make it. But he had heard things. Rumors were afloat. He hoped these rumors had not yet reached the ears of Skyrie's owners; but if they had he had still time to forestall them and reap his own advantage. Altogether, a thrifty soul was Oliver, the good; though his tones were sweetly sympathetic as he now brought his own smart team to a standstill in the very path of Portia and the phaeton.

"Don't stop, Dolly, if you can help it, but drive straight past the miller who's coming. Exchange bows, of course, if a Quaker will bow; but I'm too happy to-day to be disturbed by talk with him. Ever since he loaned us that money, 'payable on demand,' I've felt uncomfortable. It's wretched enough to owe money to anybody, but I'd have felt safer if we'd borrowed from Mrs. Calvert or even from a bank. Oh, dear! He's going to stop and we will have to!" had been Mr. Chester's hurried comments, so soon as from a little distance they saw Mr. Sands approaching.

It was a rare bit of confidence and Dorothy looked at him in some surprise. She did not share in her father's prejudice against the kind gentleman who had given her the pretty calf, and indeed was doubly grateful to him now that she had exchanged his gift for Portia. So it was in all sincerity that she returned his pleasant:

"I am glad to see thee again, little Dorothy. Thee has a bonny face that should win thee many friends."

"And I am glad to see you, Mr. Sands. I wish I understood the 'plain language,' too, then I could answer 'thee' after thy own fashion. Do you – does thee see my pretty pony? Her name is Portia. I bought her with the money paid for the calf you gave me. The pony is more useful to us, 'cause my father's lame, and so I am twice pleased. This is the first time he has ridden out with me, but I can drive real well already."

"For a beginner thee does very well, and the plain speech is the sweetest in the world – heard on the lips of pretty girls. By the way, John, I was on my way to see thee about a little matter of business. Thee may have heard that I like to acquire and hold land?"

The statement was in the form of a question, to which the ex-postman rather coldly replied: "Yes, so I have heard." He resented the familiar "John" on this "plain" speaker's lips, though he had never felt otherwise than complimented by Mrs. Cecil's even more familiar "Johnnie." It was a case of like and dislike, and as inconsistent as most such cases are.

"Can you speak freely before the little maid, John Chester?"

"With perfect freedom. There are no secrets in our household – " At which remark Dorothy slightly winced, remembering that dreadful "secret" of the "ghost," which she had hidden from her parents. "We are a united family in all respects and Dorothy fully understands our circumstances."

"Very well. That is a good thing. It speaks well for thy household. Regarding that little loan of mine, 'payable on demand,' I have considered the matter well. Thee needs money, I want land. If thee will sell me a portion of Skyrie farm that transaction should offset the other. That south meadow, for instance, known by the name of 'Si Waterman's Folly,' is worth, at ruling prices for waste mountain land, about two hundred dollars. I loaned thee three hundred; but on account of thy affliction I would pay thee more than I would another man. What does thee say?"

"I say that the property is my wife's; just as I told you before. My affliction does not enter into the case, but I shall certainly advise her against such an unfair transaction as that. There are ten acres in that south meadow, and I have learned that mountain land is not so cheap as you would have me think."

"Thee may have been misinformed. Ground suitable for fancy building lots may command a slight advance upon the ruling price, but not an overgrown piece, half-woods, half-rocks, like that misnamed 'south meadow.' Meadow stands for rich and profitable land; not such as the 'Folly.' Why, friend John, it would take all of that three hundred dollars I offer thee to fill up that hole which required several years of Simon Waterman's life to dig. The 'love of money is the root of evil,' the Good Book tells us, and it was an undue love of money which sent friend Simon to that hopeless task. A dream misled him – Thee has heard the story, John?"

"No, nor care to. We are going for a drive – my first, as Dolly explained – and a storm threatens. I will add my thanks to hers, and do appreciate the fact that but for your gift of the calf we should not now own this pretty pony."

"I trust thee may long enjoy the luxury. 'Calico' ponies are as pretty as uncommon, and there is a superstition in the neighborhood that they bring 'good luck.' Some even fancy that to 'wish upon one' has the same result. I will not detain thee from thy recreation, but will pass on to Skyrie and talk matters over with Martha herself."

With a click of his unctuous lips the miller started his team into swift motion and vanished from sight: but he left discomfort behind him and had effectually spoiled that ride for father John. Also the few clouds which had been gathering grew heavier with each passing moment and, as the invalid was careful never to expose himself to a drenching, Dorothy soon turned Portia's head homeward and arrived there just in time to escape the slight summer shower.

Martha met them with a brighter countenance than she had shown for many days, and the exclamation:

"Good news, dear ones! That splendid old Quaker gentleman has just left here, and has made me such a generous offer. He says, since we so dislike debt, that he will take that worthless south meadow off our hands and call it an equivalent for the money he advanced. Farming is hard enough, but farming free from debt would be lessened of half its worries."

"Martha, I hope you didn't tell him you would sell!" protested Mr. Chester, alarmed.

Her brightness faded into that unhappy sharpness which was becoming habitual and she returned, sarcastically:

"Of course, I didn't promise. A good wife never does dare promise anything without consulting her husband, even about her own property. I'll come with you, Dorothy, and help put up the pony."

"O mother! Now you've hurt father's feelings and it isn't like you to do that! I – I begin to understand why he dislikes that miller and his money business, for he makes you disagree so. That's something never used to be at dear old 77 Brown Street!"

"Dorothy Chester! How dare you speak to me like that?" demanded the overtired housemistress, with an asperity rarely shown to her beloved child.