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Page 7
"I had to leave it with the porter while we came to luncheon. Oh,
she's the loveliest kitten you ever saw, and her name is Puff.
What's your name?"
"My name is Stella Martin. What's yours?"
"My real name is Marjorie Maynard. But I'm almost always called
Midge or Mops or some name like that. We all have nicknames at
home; don't you?"
"No, because you see I haven't any brothers or sisters. Mother
always calls me Stella."
"Well, let's go and ask her if you can't come into my car for a
while. My mother will look after you, and then you can see the
kitten."
After some courteous words of explanation between the two mothers,
Stella was allowed to play with Marjorie for the rest of the
journey.
Seated together in one of the big Pullman easy chairs, with the
kitten cuddled between them, they rapidly made each other's
acquaintance, and soon became good friends. They were not at all
alike, for Stella Martin was a thin, pale child with a long braid
of straight, light hair, and light blue eyes. She was timid, too,
and absolutely devoid of Marjorie's impetuosity and daring. But
they were both pleased at the discovery that they were to be near
neighbors throughout the summer. Stella's home was next-door to
Grandma Sherwood's, although, as both country places were so
large, the houses were some distance apart.
Next beyond Stella's house, Marjorie remembered, was where Molly
Moss lived, and so the outlook seemed to promise plenty of
pleasant company.
About three o'clock in the afternoon the train reached Morristown,
and springing out on the platform, Marjorie soon spied Grandma
Sherwood's carriage there to meet them. Old Moses was still in
charge of the horses, as he had been ever since Marjorie could
remember, and in a moment she heard a hearty voice cry, "Oh, there
you are!" and there was Uncle Steve waiting for them on the
platform.
Uncle Steve was a great friend of Marjorie's, and she flew to
greet him almost before he had time to welcome her mother. Then in
a few moments the luggage was looked after, and they were all in
the carriage, rolling away toward Haslemere.
Marjorie chatted away like a magpie, for she had many questions to
ask Uncle Steve, and as she was looking out to renew acquaintance
with old landmarks along the road, the drive to the house seemed
very short, and soon they were turning in at the gate.
Haslemere was not a large, old-fashioned farm, but a fair-sized
and well-kept country place. Grandma Sherwood, who had been a
widow for many years, lived there with her son Stephen. It was
like a farm, because there were chickens and ducks, and cows and
horses, and also a large garden where fresh vegetables of all
sorts were raised. But there were no grain fields or large pasture
lands, or pigs or turkeys, such as belong to larger farms. The
drive from the gate up to the house was a long avenue, shaded on
both sides by beautiful old trees, and the wide expanse of lawn
was kept as carefully mowed as if at a town house. There were
flower beds in abundance, and among the trees and shrubbery were
rustic seats and arbors, hammocks and swings, and a delightful
tent where the children loved to play. Back of the house the land
sloped down to the river, which was quite large enough for
delightful boating and fishing.
The house was of that old-fashioned type which has two front doors
and two halls, with large parlors between them, and wings on
either side. A broad veranda ran across the front, and, turning
both corners, ran along either side.
As they drove up to the house, Grandma Sherwood was on the piazza
waiting for them. She was not a very old lady, that is, she was
not of the white-haired, white-capped, and silver-spectacled
variety. She was perhaps sixty years old, and seemed quite as
energetic and enthusiastic as her daughter, if perhaps not quite
so much so as her granddaughter.
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