It was after one o’clock when the boy at last started for home and on the way was hailed by a stranger—­a little man who was trudging along the road with both hands thrust in his pockets.

“Going far?” he asked.

“Up th’ mount’n to Hillcrest,” said Bub.

“Oh.  May I have a lift?”

“How fer?”

“Well, I can’t say how far I’ll go.  I’m undecided.  Just came out here for a little fresh air, you know, with no definite plans,” explained the stranger.

“Hop in,” said Bub and for a time they rode together in silence.

“This ‘ere’s the Huddle, as we’re comin’ to,” announced the boy.  “Ol’ Miss’ Parsons she sometimes takes boarders.”

“That’s kind of her,” remarked the stranger.  “But the air isn’t so good as further up the hill.”

“Ef ye go up,” said Bub with a grin, “guess ye’ll hev to camp out an’ eat scrub.  Nobody don’t take boarders, up th’ mount’n.”

“I suppose not.”

He made no demand to be let out at the Huddle, so Bub drove on.

“By the way,” said the little man, “isn’t there a place called Bigbee’s, near here?”

“Comin’ to it pretty soon.  They’s some gals livin’ there now, so ye won’t care to stop.”

“What sort of girls are they?”

“Sort o’ queer.”

“Yes?”

“Ye bet ye.  Come from the city a while ago an’ livin’ by theyselves.  Someth’n’ wrong ’bout them gals,” added Bub reflectively.

“In what way?” asked the little man in a tone of interest.

“They ain’t here fer nuth’n’ special ‘cept watchin’ the folks at Hillcrest.  Them’s the folks I belongs to.  For four bits a week.  They’s someth’n’ queer ’bout them, too; but I guess all the folks is queer thet comes here from the city.”

“Quite likely,” agreed the little man, nodding.  “Let me out at Bigbee’s, please, and I’ll look over those women and form my own opinion of them.  They may perhaps be friends of mine.”

“In thet case,” asserted Bub, “I pity ye, stranger.  F’r my part, I ain’t got no use fer anything thet wears skirts—­’cept one er two, mebbe,” he added reflectively.  “Most men I kin git ’long with fust-rate; but ef a man ever gits in trouble, er begins cussin’ an’ acts ugly, it’s ’cause some gal’s rubbed him crossways the grain er stuck a knife in him an’ twisted the blade—­so’s ter speak.”

“You’re an observant lad, I see.”

“When I’m awake I kain’t help seein’ things.”

“And you’re a pastoral philosopher.”

Bub scowled and gave him a surly glance.

“What’s the use firin’ thet high-brow stuff at me?” he asked indignantly.  “I s’pose ye think I’m a kid, jes’ ’cause I don’t do no fancy talkin’.”

“I suspect you of nothing but generosity in giving me this ride,” said the stranger pleasantly.  “Is that Bigbee’s, over yonder?”

“Yes.”

The little man got out at the point where the Bigbee drive met the road, and walked up the drive toward the house.  Agatha Lord was standing at the gateway, as he approached it, and seemed rather startled at his appearance.  But she quickly controlled her surprise and asked in a calm voice, as she faced him: