“I’m going out for a while, mother,” she said, as she passed the room where Mrs. Dix was placidly sewing carpet rags out of materials prodigiously increased of late, since both women had been able to afford several new dresses.

“Going to Fanny’s?” inquired Mrs. Dix....  “Seems to me you’re starting out pretty early, dear, in all this heat.  If you’ll wait till sundown, I’ll go with you.  I haven’t seen their parlor since they got the new curtains up.”

“I’m not going to Fanny’s, right off,” said Ellen evasively.  “Maybe I’ll stop on the way back, though.  ’Tisn’t very hot; it’s clouded up some.”

“Better taken an umbrella,” her mother sent after her.  “We might get a thunder storm along towards four o’clock.  My shoulder’s been paining me all the morning.”

But Ellen had already passed out of hearing, her fresh skirts held well away from the dusty wayside weeds.

She was going, with intentions undefined, to see Lydia Orr.  Perhaps (she was thinking) she might see Jim Dodge.  Anyway, she wanted to go to Bolton House.  She would find out for herself wherein lay the curious fascination of which Fanny had spoken.  She was surprised at Fanny for so easily giving in about the furniture.  Secretly, she considered herself to be possibly a bit shrewder than Fanny.  In reality she was not as easily influenced, and slower at forming conclusions.  She possessed a mind of more scope.

Ellen walked along, setting her pointed feet down very carefully so as not to raise the dust and soil her nice skirts.  She was a dainty creature.  When she reached the hedge which marked the beginning of the Bolton estate, she started, not violently, that was not her way, but anybody is more startled at the sudden glimpse of a figure at complete rest, almost rigidity, than of a figure in motion.  Had the old man whom Ellen saw been walking along toward her, she would not have started at all.  She might have glanced at him with passing curiosity, since he was a stranger in Brookville, then that would have been the end of it.  But this old man, standing as firmly fixed as a statue against the hedge, startled the girl.  He was rather a handsome old man, but there was something peculiar about him.  For one thing he was better dressed than old men in Brookville generally were.  He wore a light Palm Beach cloth suit, possibly too young for him, also a Panama hat.  He did not look altogether tidy.  He did not wear his up-to-date clothes very well.  He had a rumpled appearance.  He was very pale almost with the paleness of wax.  He did not stand strongly, but rested his weight first on one foot, then on the other.  Ellen recovered her composure, but as she was passing, he spoke suddenly.  His tone was eager and pitiful.  “Why Ann Eliza Dix,” he said.  “How do you do?  You are not going to pass without speaking to me?”

“My name is Dix, but not Ann Eliza,” said Ellen politely; “my name is Ellen.”

“You are Cephas Dix’s sister, Ann Eliza,” insisted the old man.  His eyes looked suddenly tearful.  “I know I am right,” he said.  “You are Ann Eliza Dix.”