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Page 7
"I'm glad there's somebody takes enough interest in the child to write
to her," continued the gossipy old squire, who often talked to himself
when he could find no other audience. "I wonder who it is. Lloydsboro
Valley it's postmarked. Wish she'd happen down here. I'd ask her who
it's from."
Jake got up, dragged his bare feet across the floor, and leaned lazily
on the counter as he reached for his paper.
"Little Betty will be mighty proud to get a real shore 'nuff letter all
for herself. I never got one in my life. I'll take it up to her, squire,
if you say so. I'm goin' by the Appletons' on my way home."
"Reckon you might as well," answered the old man, giving a final close
scrutiny before handing it to the boy. "It might lie here all week in
case none of them happened to come to the store, and it looks as if it
might be important."
Jake slipped the letter into the band of his broad-brimmed straw hat and
slouched lazily out of the store. An old blaze-faced sorrel horse
whinnied as he stepped up to untie it. Jake mounted and rode off slowly,
his bare feet dangling far below the stirrups. It was two miles to the
Appleton farm, down a hot, dusty road, and he took his time in going.
Well for little Betty that she did not know what wonderful surprise was
on its way to her, or she would have been in a fever of impatience for
the letter to arrive.
It had been a tiresome day for the child. Up before five, in her bare
little room in the west gable, busy with morning chores until breakfast
was ready, she had earned a rest long before the Little Colonel's day
had begun. Afterward she had helped with the breakfast dishes and had
taken her turn at the butter-making in the spring-house, thumping the
heavy dasher up and down in the cedar churn until her arms ached. But it
was cool and pleasant down in the spring-house with the water trickling
out in a ceaseless drip-drip on the cold stones. She dabbled her fingers
in the spring for a long time when the churning was done, wishing she
had nothing to do but sit there and listen to the secrets it was trying
to tell. Surely it must have learned a great many on its underground way
among the roots of things, and all else that lies hidden in the earth.
But she could not loiter long. There was the dinner-table to set for the
hungry farm-hands, and after the dinner was over more dishes to wash.
Then there were some towels to iron. It was two o'clock before her work
was all done, and she had time to go up to her little room in the west
gable.
The sun poured in through the shutterless windows so fiercely that she
did not stay long,--only long enough to put on a clean apron and brush
her curly hair, as she stood in front of the little looking-glass. It
was such a tiny mirror that she could see only a part of her face at a
time. When her big brown eyes, wistful and questioning as a fawn's, were
reflected in it, there was no room for the sensitive little mouth. Or if
she stood on tiptoe so that she could see her plump round chin, dimpled
cheeks, and white teeth, the eyes were left out, and she could see no
more of her inquisitive little nose than lay below the big freckle in
the middle of it.
Hastily tying back her curls with a bow of brown ribbon, she slipped on
her apron, and ran down-stairs, buttoning it as she went. She was free
now to do as she pleased until supper-time. Once out of the house, she
walked slowly along through the shady orchard, swinging her sunbonnet by
the strings. After the orchard came the long leafy lane, with its double
rows of cherry-trees, and then the gate at the end, leading into the
public highway.
As she slipped her hand around the post to unfasten the chain that held
the gate, little bare feet came pattering behind her, and a shrill voice
called: "Wait, Betty, wait a minute!" It was Davy Appleton. Betty's
little lamb, they called him, and Betty's shadow, and Betty's
sticking-plaster, because everywhere she went there was Davy just at her
heels.
All the Appleton children were boys,--three younger and two older than
Davy, whose last birthday cake should have had eight candles if there
had been any celebration of the event. But there never had been a
birthday cake with candles on it on the Appleton table. It would have
been considered a foolish waste of time and money, and birthdays came
and went sometimes, without the children knowing that they had passed.
Davy was a queer little fellow. He tagged along after Betty, switching
at the grass with a whip he carried, never saying a word after that
first eager call for her to wait. The two never tired of each other. He
was content to follow and ask no questions, for he had learned long ago
to look twice before he spoke once. As he caught up with her at the
gate, he did not even ask where she was going, knowing that he would
find out in due time if he only followed far enough.
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