She asked about me, and Billy told her that I was in the garden.  And I was in the garden when she came out; but I had to run.  She sat down in a chair on the other side of my little sewing-table and talked to me.  It is such a scrap of a garden that there is only room for a tiny table and two chairs, but a screen of old cedars hides it from the road, and there’s a twisted apple-tree, and the fields beyond and a glimpse of the mountains.

“How is the island?” Billy asked her.

She twinkled.  “I have a man Friday.”

“William Watters?”

She nodded.  “The Watters negroes have been our servants for generations.  And William thinks that he belongs to me.  He cooks for me and forages.  He shot two squirrels one morning and made me a Brunswick stew.  But I couldn’t stand that.  You see the squirrels are my friends.”

I thought of the flying squirrels and the blue-tailed lizards and the old toad, and I knew how she felt.  And I said so.  She looked at me sharply, and then she laid her hand over mine:  “Are you lonely, my dear?”

I said that I was—­a little.  Billy had gone in to wait on a customer, so I dared say it.  I told her that nobody had called.

“But why not?” she demanded.

“I think,” I said slowly, “it is because we live—­over the store.”

“I see.”  And she did see; it was in her blood as well as in the blood of the rest of them.

Presently she stood up and said that she must go, and it was then that she noticed the work that was in my basket on the table.  She lifted out a little garment and the red came into her cheeks.  “Oh, oh!” she said, and stood looking at it.  When she laid it down, she came around the table and kissed me.  “What a dear you are!” she said, and then she went away.

William Watters came in very often after that; but he said very little about Lady Crusoe.  He was a faithful old thing, and he had evidently had instructions.  But one morning he brought a fine old Sheffield tray to Billy and asked him to take his pay out of it, and let Lady Crusoe have the rest in cash.  William Watters didn’t call her “Lady Crusoe,” he called her “Miss Lily,” which didn’t give us the key to the situation in the least.  Billy didn’t know how to value the tray, so he asked me.  I knew more than he did, but I wasn’t sure.  I told him to advance what he thought was best, and to send it to the city and have it appraised, or whatever they call it, so he did; and when the check from the antique shop came it was a big one.

It wasn’t long after that that Lady Crusoe called on me.  It was a real call, and she left a card.  And she said as she laid it on the table:  “As I told you, I’d rather the rest of the natives didn’t know—­they haven’t seen me since I was a child, and they think that I am just some stranger who rents the old place and who wants to be alone.”

After she had gone I picked up the card, and what I read there nearly took my breath away.  There are certain names which mean so much that we get to look upon them as having special significance.  The name that was on Lady Crusoe’s card had always stood in my mind for money—­oceans of it.  I simply couldn’t believe my eyes, and I took it down to Billy.