Strawberry Acres | Page 2

it ever was--which I doubt. In the first place it
belongs to that little suburb of Wybury--as commonplace a village as
ever existed within five miles of as big a city as this. In the second
place it's as much an abandoned farm as neglect can make a place that
was once, I suppose, an aristocratic sort of country home. The old
mansion is as big as a barn, and as hopeless. You couldn't any more
make a home out of it!--Why, you could put this whole apartment into
the room at the left of the hall!"
"How do you know so much about it?" demanded Sally. "None of us
has been there since Aunt Alicia died--that was when we were children,
and Uncle Maxwell used to spend his summers there."
"He hasn't spent them there since she died," Max asserted. "How do I
know so much about it? I was down there last summer with Frank
Sustis. His father sent him out to look the place over, with a view to
buying it himself for a summer home. You should have heard Prank
jeer at the idea while we were going about."
"It makes no difference," persisted Sally, removing her hat and folding
the veil with care. "I want to see it. We'll go out to-morrow, won't we?"
She appealed to her second brother, Alec, a young fellow of twenty,
who had thrown himself listlessly into a chair but who was listening
attentively to the discussion. He nodded. "Of course. You couldn't keep
one of us away, even Max. He wouldn't be done out of the pleasure of
showing us over the place and pointing out the defects, if, by keeping
still, he could own the whole ranch himself."
"It'll be jolly fun to go!" cried Bob, quickly. He could not bear sounds
of disagreement between the members of his family, because he knew
Sally did not like it.
"What do you think about the old place, Uncle Timmy?" questioned
Sally presently. She had taken off her one carefully-used street suit, and
had put on a fresh little black-and-white print, in which she was setting
the table for dinner. All the others except Uncle Timothy had gone out
on various errands.

"Well, Sally," said Mr. Timothy Rudd, thoughtfully, "I don't know that
I'm a competent judge. Your Uncle Maxwell's place was considered a
fine one in its day. Before he made so much money and took to living
in town, he used to like it there, I think, though he didn't say much
about it. I'm sorry it's been allowed to run down. There was a pine
grove on it, and a splendid young apple orchard, and a timber tract at
the back that ought to be worth considerable money by this time, if it
hasn't been cut. Probably it has, with timber bringing the prices it does
now."
"About the house," inquired Sally, after Uncle Timothy had gone into
more or less detail concerning the place itself. "I'm especially interested
in the house. Do you think it would be out of the question for us to live
there?"
"I don't know. It would be something of a change from this," he
admitted, looking about the little dining-room. "You've managed to
make us all pretty comfortable here, with what there was left of the
furniture after the sale. I don't know how far it would go in Maxwell's
big house. It's pretty large, that's a fact. According to Max, it's in need
of a good deal of repair. Of course, as far as I'm concerned, I should
like to live out in the country among the green things, as I used to do,
up in New Hampshire. It would be good for us all. But you can tell
better after you've seen the place again."
There was no denying this. Sally's head was so full of plans it was
difficult to wait until the afternoon of the next day, when everybody
should be at liberty to make the trip to Wybury. The moment luncheon
was over they started, and by two o'clock the trolley-car, whizzing out
through the suburbs to the open country, then following the curve along
the river edge to pass through the small settlement called Wybury, had
deposited them in the centre of that village.
The Maxwell place lay a quarter of a mile down the river road, and the
party set off promptly to cover the short distance. It was early April,
sunny and mild, but still rather damp under foot. After leaving the
board sidewalks of Wybury there was no accommodation for foot
passengers except the path at the side of the road.

"Imagine tramping through this mud every night and morning," was
Max's first contribution to the effort he meant to make to disillusionize
his