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A little flower-garden bloomed between the two houses, and on the grass, by one of its clove-pink borders, sat a woman, rocking back and forth in an ancient chair, and doing absolutely nothing. She was young, and seemed all brown; for her eyes were dark, and her skin had been tanned to the deep, rich tint sweeter to some eyes than pure roses and milk. Lucindy guided Buckskin up to the gate, and Molly McNeil looked up and smiled without moving.

“How do?” she said, in a soft, slow voice. “Won’t you come in?”

Lucindy was delighted. It was long since she had met a stranger.

“Well, I would,” she answered, “but I don’t know as I can get down. This is new business to me.”

“Ellen,” called Mrs. McNeil, “you bring out somethin’ to step on!”

A little girl appeared with a yellow kitchen chair. Mrs. McNeil rose, carried it outside the gate, and planted it by Buckskin’s side.

“There!” she said, “you put your hand on my shoulder and step down. It won’t tip. I’ve got my knee on it.”

Lucindy alighted, with some difficulty, and drew a long breath.

“I’ll hitch him,” said Molly McNeil. “You go in and sit down in that chair, and Ellen’ll bring you a drink of water.”

Ellen was barelegged and barefooted. Her brown hair hung over her dark eyes in a pleasant tangle. Her even teeth were white, and her lips red. There was no fault nor blemish in her little face; and when she had brought the dipper full of water, and stood rubbing one foot against its neighboring leg, Lucindy thought she had never seen anything so absolutely bewitching. Molly had hitched the horse, in manly and knowing fashion, and then seated herself on the kitchen chair beside Lucindy; but the attitude seemed not to suit her, and presently she rose and lay quietly down at full length on the grass. She did it quite as a matter of course, and her visitor thought it looked very pleasant; possibly she would have tried it herself if she had not been so absorbed in another interest. She was watching the little girl, who was running into the house with the dipper.

“Ain’t she complete!” she said. “Your oldest?”

“She ain’t mine at ‘all.” Mrs. McNeil rose on one elbow, and began chewing a grass stem.

It was very restful to Lucindy to see some one who was too much interested in anything, however trivial, to be interested in her. “You know about the Italian that come round with the hand-organ last month? He was her father. Well, he died,–fell off a mow one night,–and the town sold the hand-organ and kept Ellen awhile on the farm. But she run away, and my boys found her hidin’ in the woods starved most to death. So I took her in, and the overseer said I was welcome to her. She’s a nice little soul.”

“She’s proper good-lookin’!” Lucindy’s eyes were sparkling.

“She don’t look as well as common to-day, for the boys went off plummin’ without her. She was asleep, and I didn’t want to call her. She had a cryin’ spell when she waked up, but I didn’t know which way they’d gone.”

Ellen came wandering round the side of the house, and Lucindy crooked a trembling finger at her.

“Come here!” she called. “You come here and see me!”

Ellen walked up to her with a steady step, and laid one little brown hand on Lucindy’s knee. But the old Judge’s daughter drew the child covetously to her lap.

“Look here,” she said, “should you like to go home and spend a week with me?”

The little maid threw back her tangle of curls, and looked Lucindy squarely in the eyes.

“Yes,” she answered.

Lucindy’s grasp tightened round her.

“How should you like to live with me?”

The child touched her little breast inquiringly with one finger.

“Me?” She pointed over to Mrs. McNeil, who lay listening and stretching her limbs in lazy comfort. “Leave her?” And then, gravely, “No; she’s good to me.”