Aunt Janes Nieces at Millville | Page 8

obliged to pay her wages was an undesirable thing to do; yet he reflected that it might be wise to adopt Nick Thorne's suggestion.
So next morning he drove the liveryman's sorrel mare out to Thompson's Crossing, where the brick school-house stood on one corner and Will Thompson's residence on another. A mile away could be seen the spires of the little church at Hooker's Falls.
McNutt hitched his horse to Thompson's post, walked up the neat pebbled path and knocked at the door.
"Ethel in?" he asked of the sad-faced woman who, after some delay, answered his summons.
"She's in the garden, weedin'."
"I'll go 'round," said the agent.
The garden was a bower of roses. Among them stood a slender girl in a checked gingham, tying vines to a trellis.
"Morn'n', Ethel," said the visitor.
The girl smiled at him. She was not very pretty, because her face was long and wan, and her nose a bit one-sided. But her golden hair sparkled in the sun like a mass of spun gold, and the smile was winning in its unconscious sweetness. Surely, such attractions were enough for a mere country girl.
Ethel Thompson had, however, another claim to distinction. She had been "eddicated," as her neighbors acknowledged in awed tones, and "took a diploma from a college school at Troy." Young as she was, Ethel had taught school for two years, and might have a life tenure if she cared to retain the position. As he looked at her neat gown and noted the grace and ease of her movements the agent acknowledged that he had really "come to the right shop" to untangle his perplexing difficulties.
"New folks is comin' to the Cap'n Wegg farm," he announced, as a beginning.
She turned and looked at him queerly.
"Has Joe sold the place?" she asked.
"Near a year ago. Some fool rich man has bought it and is comin' down here to spend his summer vacation, he says. Here, read his letters. They'll explain it better 'n I can."
Her hand trembled a little as she took the letters McNutt pulled from his pocket. Then she sat upon a bench and read them all through. By that time she had regained her composure.
"The gentleman is somewhat eccentric," she remarked; "but he will make no mistake in coming to this delightful place, if he wishes quiet and rest."
"Don't know what he's after, I'm sure," replied the man. "But he's sent down enough furniture an' truck to stock a hotel, an' I want to know ef you'll go over an' put it in the rooms, an' straighten things out."
"Me!"
"Why, yes. You've lived in cities some, an' know how citified things go. Con-twist it, Ethel, there's things in the bunch that neither I ner Nick Thorne ever hearn tell of, much less knowin' what they're used for."
The girl laughed.
"When are the folks coming?" she asked.
"When I git things in shape. They've sent some money down to pay fer what's done, so you won't have to work fer nuthin'."
"I will, though," responded the girl, in a cheery tone. "It will delight me to handle pretty things. Are Nora and Tom still there?"
"Oh, yes. I had orders to turn the Huckses out, ye see; but I didn't do it."
"I'm glad of that," she returned, brightly "Perhaps we may arrange it so they can stay. Old Nora's a dear."
"But she's blind."
"She knows every inch of the Wegg house, and does her work more thoroughly than many who can see. When do you want me, Peggy?"
"Soon's you kin come."
"Then I'll be over tomorrow morning."
At that moment a wild roar, like that of a beast, came from the house. The sad faced woman ran down a passage; a door slammed, and then all was quiet again.
McNutt hitched uneasily from the wooden foot to the good one.
"How's ol' Will?" he enquired, in a low voice.
"Grandfather's about as usual," replied the girl, with trained composure.
"Still crazy as a bedbug?"
"At times he becomes a bit violent; but those attacks never last long."
"Don't s'pose I could see him?" ventured the agent, still in hesitating tones.
"Oh, no; he has seen no visitor since Captain Wegg died."
"Well, good-bye, Ethel. See you at the farm in the mornin'."
The girl sat for a long time after McNutt had driven away, seemingly lost in revery.
"Poor Joe!" she sighed, at last. "Poor, foolish Joe. I wonder what has become of him?"

CHAPTER IV.
ETHEL MAKES PREPARATION.
The Wegg homestead stood near the edge of a thin forest of pines through which Little Bill Creek wound noisily on its way to the lake. At the left was a slope on which grew a neglected orchard of apple and pear trees, their trunks rough and gnarled by the struggle to outlive many severe winters. There was a rude, rocky lane in front, separated from the yard by a fence of split pine rails, but the