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Winslow had been fishing–or pretending to–all the morning, and he was desperately thirsty. He boarded with the Beckwiths on the Riverside East Shore, but he was nearer Riverside West, and he knew the Penningtons well. He had often been there for bait and milk and had listened times out of mind to Mrs. Pennington’s dismal tales of her tribulations with hired girls. She never could get along with them, and they left, on an average, after a fortnight’s trial. She was on the lookout for one now, he knew, and would likely be cross, but he thought she would give him a drink.

He rowed his skiff into the shore and tied it to a fir that hung out from the bank. A winding little footpath led up to the Pennington farmhouse, which crested the hill about three hundred yards from the shore. Winslow made for the kitchen door and came face to face with a girl carrying a pail of water–Mrs. Pennington’s latest thing in hired girls, of course.

Winslow’s first bewildered thought was “What a goddess!” and he wondered, as he politely asked for a drink, where on earth Mrs. Pennington had picked her up. She handed him a shining dipper half full and stood, pail in hand, while he drank it.

She was rather tall, and wore a somewhat limp, faded print gown, and a big sunhat, beneath which a glossy knot of chestnut showed itself. Her skin was very fair, somewhat freckled, and her mouth was delicious. As for her eyes, they were grey, but beyond that simply defied description.

“Will you have some more?” she asked in a soft, drawling voice.

“No, thank you. That was delicious. Is Mrs. Pennington home?”

“No. She has gone away for the day.”

“Well, I suppose I can sit down here and rest a while. You’ve no serious objections, have you?”

“Oh, no.”

She carried her pail into the kitchen and came out again presently with a knife and a pan of apples. Sitting down on a bench under the poplars she proceeded to peel them with a disregard of his presence that piqued Winslow, who was not used to being ignored in this fashion. Besides, as a general rule, he had been quite good friends with Mrs. Pennington’s hired girls. She had had three strapping damsels during his sojourn in Riverside, and he used to sit on this very doorstep and chaff them. They had all been saucy and talkative. This girl was evidently a new species.

“Do you think you’ll get along with Mrs. Pennington?” he asked finally. “As a rule she fights with her help, although she is a most estimable woman.”

The girl smiled quite broadly.

“I guess p’r’aps she’s rather hard to suit,” was the answer, “but I like her pretty well so far. I think we’ll get along with each other. If we don’t I can leave–like the others did.”

“What is your name?”

“Nelly Ray.”

“Well, Nelly, I hope you’ll be able to keep your place. Let me give you a bit of friendly advice. Don’t let the cats get into the pantry. That is what Mrs. Pennington has quarrelled with nearly every one of her girls about.”

“It is quite a bother to keep them out, ain’t it?” said Nelly calmly. “There’s dozens of cats about the place. What on earth makes them keep so many?”

“Mr. Pennington has a mania for cats. He and Mrs. Pennington have a standing disagreement about it. The last girl left here because she couldn’t stand the cats; they affected her nerves, she said. I hope you don’t mind them.”

“Oh, no; I kind of like cats. I’ve been tryin’ to count them. Has anyone ever done that?”

“Not that I know of. I tried but I had to give up in despair–never could tell when I was counting the same cat over again. Look at that black goblin sunning himself on the woodpile. I say, Nelly, you’re not going, are you?”