“Very well, since you are so kind,” Irene decided, and after a few more kindly remarks the beautiful Miss Lord left them and walked with graceful, swinging stride down the path to the road and down the road toward the Bigbee house.

CHAPTER XV

BUB’S HOBBY

When their visitor had departed Mary Louise turned to her friend.

“Now, Irene, tell me about that queer letter,” she begged.

“Not yet, dear.  I’m sure it isn’t important, though it’s curious to find such an old letter tucked away in a book Uncle Peter bought at an auction in New York—­a letter that refers to your own people, in days long gone by.  In fact, Mary Louise, it was written so long ago that it cannot possibly interest us except as proof of the saying that the world’s a mighty small place.  When I have nothing else to do I mean to read that old epistle from start to finish; then, if it contains anything you’d care to see, I’ll let you have a look at it.”

With this promise Mary Louise was forced to be content, for she did not wish to annoy Irene by further pleadings.  It really seemed, on reflection, that the letter could be of little consequence to anyone.  So she put it out of mind, especially as just now they spied Bub sitting on the bench and whittling as industriously as ever.

“Let me go to him first,” suggested Irene, with a mischievous smile.  “He doesn’t seem at all afraid of me, for some reason, and after I’ve led him into conversation you can join us.”

So she wheeled her chair over to where the boy sat.  He glanced toward her as she approached the bench but made no movement to flee.

“We’ve had a visitor,” said the girl, confidentially; “a lady who has taken the Bigbee house for the summer.”

Bub nodded, still whittling.

“I know; I seen her drive her car up the grade on high,” he remarked, feeling the edge of his knife-blade reflectively.  “Seems like a real sport—­fer a gal—­don’t she?”

“She isn’t a girl; she’s a grown woman.”

“To me,” said Bub, “ev’rything in skirts is gals.  The older they gits, the more ornery, to my mind.  Never seen a gal yit what’s wuth havin’ ’round.”

“Some day,” said Irene with a smile, “you may change your mind about girls.”

“An’ ag’in,” said Bub, “I mayn’t.  Dad says he were soft in the head when he took up with marm, an’ Talbot owned a wife once what tried ter pizen him; so he giv ‘er the shake an’ come here to live in peace; but Dad’s so used to scoldin’s thet he can’t sleep sound in the open any more onless he lays down beside the brook where it’s noisiest.  Then it reminds him o’ marm an’ he feels like he’s to home.  Gals think they got the men scared, an’ sometimes they guess right.  Even Miss’ Morrison makes Will toe the mark, an’ Miss’ Morrison ain’t no slouch, fer a gal.”

This somewhat voluble screed was delivered slowly, interspersed with periods of aimless whittling, and when Irene had patiently heard it through she decided it wise to change the subject.