Miss Joey, not being past thirty, had a plan in her head.  Her head was small,—­so was she,—­but the plan was large enough and good enough.

This plan, however, was upset, and by her own means, even before the prospect of its being carried out was even probable.  It was Miss Joey’s own notion that one half the house should be let.

“We are so dwindled down,” she said.  “A small, quiet family would bring in a little something, and be company.”  This was at the close of a long and rather lonely winter.

So, one day, Mr. Lane came home, and said he had let the other half to a family from up-country,—­man and wife and little girl.

“The very thing!” said Miss Joey.

Alas for human foresight!

The next day, at sundown, a loaded wagon drove up; then a carryall, from which stepped an elderly couple and a sweet pretty girl.

“What angel is that, alighting upon earth?” I exclaimed, looking over Miss Joey’s head.

“Thought she was goin’ to be a little girl,” said she.

“Wal,” replied Mr. Lane, “that’s what he called her:  suppose she seems little to him.  But so much the better.  The bigger she is, the more company she’ll be.”

Miss Joey went in to receive them, and I retired to my chamber.  From the window I observed that the pretty girl was very handy about helping, and heard her mother call her Mary Ellen.

The next morning, just as I was leaving for the office, I heard a quick step across the entry.  The door opened, and “the little girl,” Mary Ellen, came in.  Her hair was pushed straight behind her ears, and her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows.

“I came in,” said she, rather bashfully, “to ask if Mr. Lane would help us set up a bedstead; father had to go, and mother’s feeble.”

“Mr. Lane’s gone to get his horse shod,” said Miss Joey.

Mary Ellen stood still, doubting whether to speak, but looking rather puzzled; for David was in plain sight, fixing his pickerel-traps in the back-room.

“Miss Joey,” said I, smiling, and looking towards him, “there are two Mr. Lanes, you know.”

“Oh, David,—­yes,—­David.  Wal, so David could.”

And so David did.  I bit my lip, and went out.

In turning the corner of the house, I passed the open window, and glanced in, as was natural.  ’Twas an old-fashioned bedstead, and there was David, red as a rose, screwing up the cord, while Mary Ellen, fair as a lily, was hammering away at the wooden peg, while the old lady stood by, giving directions.

It struck me so queerly that I laughed and talked to myself all the way to the office.

“Poor David!” I muttered, “how could he steady his hands, with such a pair of white arms near them?  Good! good!” And then I would ha! ha! and strike my stick against the stones.  “Turner,” said I, addressing myself, “she’s what you may call a sweet pretty girl.”