Etext of Betty Gordon at Bramble Farm
By Alice B. Emerson Pseud. of Stratemeyer Syndicate;  Plot
Outline by Edward Stratemeyer; Ghostwritten by Josephine
Lawrence
 New York: Cupples & Leon, 1920

CHAPTER I WAITING FOR WORD

"I do wish you'd wear a sunbonnet, Betty," said Mrs. Arnold,
glancing up from her ironing board as Betty Gordon came into the
kitchen. "You're getting old enough now to think a little about your
complexion." 

Betty's brown eyes laughed over the rim of the glass of water she
had drawn at the sink. 

"I can't stand a sunbonnet," she declared vehemently, returning the
glass to the nickel holder under the shelf. "I know just how a horse
feels with blinders on. You know you wouldn't like it, Mrs.
Arnold, if I pulled up half your onion sets in mistake for weeds
because I couldn't see what I was doing."     

Mrs. Arnold shook her head over the white ruffle she was fluting
with nervous, skillful fingers. "There's no call for you to go
grubbing in that onion bed," she said. "I'd like you to have nice
hands and not be burnt black as an Indian when your uncle comes.
But then, nobody pays any attention to what I say."     

There was more truth in this statement than Mrs. Arnold herself
suspected. She was one of these patient, anxious women who
unconsciously nag every one about them and whose stream of
complaint never rises above a constant murmur. Her family were
so used to Mrs. Arnold's monotonous fault-finding that they rarely
if ever knew what she was complaining about. They did not mean
to be disrespectful, but they had fallen into the habit of not
listening.      

"Uncle' Dick won't mind if I'm as black as an Indian," said Betty
confidently, spreading out her strong, little brown right hand and
eyeing it critically. "With all the traveling he's done, I guess he's
seen people more tanned than I am, You're sure there wasn't a
letter this morning?" 

"The young ones said there wasn't," returned Mrs. Arnold,
changing her cool iron for a hot one, and testing it by holding it
close to her flushed face. "But I don't know that Ted and George
would know a letter if they saw it, their heads are so full of
fishing." 

"I thought' Uncle Dick would write again," observed Betty
wistfully. "But perhaps there wasn't time. He said he might come
any day." "I don't know what he'll say," worried Mrs. 

Arnold, her eyes surveying the slender figure leaning against the
sink. "Your not being in mourning will certainly seem queer to
him. I hope you'll tell him Sally Pettit and I offered to make you
black frocks." 

Betty smiled, her peculiarly vivid, rich smile. "Dear Mrs. Arnold!"
she said, affection warm in her voice. "Of course I'll tell him. He
will understand, and not blame you. And now I'm going to tackle
those weeds." 

The screen door banged behind her. 

Betty Gordon was an orphan, her mother having died in March (it
was now June) and her father two years before. The
twelve-year-old girl had to her knowledge but one single living
relative in the world, her father's brother, Richard Gordon. Betty
had never seen this uncle. For years he had traveled about the
country, wherever his work called him, sometimes spending
months in large cities, sometimes living for weeks in the desert.
Mr. Gordon was a promoter of various industrial enterprises and
was frequently sent for to investigate new mines, oil wells and
other large developments. 

"I'd love to travel," thought Betty, pulling at an especially stubborn
weed. "I hope Uncle Dick will like me and take me with him
wherever he goes. Wouldn't it be just like a fairy story if he should
come here and scoop me out of Pineville and take me hundreds of
miles away to beautiful and exciting adventures!" 

This enchanting prospect so thrilled the  energetic young gardener
that she sat down comfortably in the middle of the row to dream a
little more. While her father lived, Betty's home had been in a
small, bustling city where she had gone to school in the winter.
The family had always gone to the seashore in the summer; but the
only exciting adventure she could recall had been a tedious attack
of the measles when she was six years old.  Mrs. Gordon, upon her
husband's sudden death, had taken her little daughter and come
back to Pineville, the only home she had known as a lonely young
orphan girl. She had many kind friends in the sleepy country town,
and when she died these same friends had taken loving charge of
Betty. 

The girl's grief for the loss of her mother baffled the villagers who
would have known how to deal with sorrow that expressed itself in
words or flowed out in tears. Betty's long silences, her desire to be
left quite alone in her mother's room, above all her determination
not to wear mourn- ing, puzzled them. That she had sustained a
great shock no one could doubt. White and mis- erable, she went
about, the shadow of her former gay-hearted self. For the first time
in her life she was experiencing a real bereavement. 

When Betty's father had died, the girl's grieving was principally for
her mother's evident pain. She had always been her mother's
confidante and chum, and the bond between them, naturally close,
had been strengthened by Mr. Gordon's frequent absences on the
road as a salesman. It was Betty and her mother who locked up the
house at night, Betty and her mother who discussed household
finances and planned to surprise the husband and father. The
daughter felt his death keenly, but she could never miss his actual
presence as she did that of the mother from whom she had never
been separated for one night from the time she was born. 

The neighbors took turns staying with the stricken girl in the little
brown house that had been home for the two weeks following Mrs.
Gordon's death. Then, as Betty seemed to be re- covering her
natural poise, a discussion of her affairs was instigated. The house
had been a rented one and Betty owned practically nothing in the
world except the simple articles of furniture that had been her
mother's household effects. These Mrs. Arnold stored for her in a
vacant loft over a store, and Mrs. Arnold, her mother's closest
friend, bore the lonely child off to stay with them till Richard
Gordon could be heard from and some arrangement made for the
future. Communication with Mr. Gordon was necessarily slow,
since he moved about so frequently, but when the news of his
sister-in-law's death reached him, he wrote immediately to Betty,
promising to come to Pineville as soon as he could plan his
business affairs to release him. 

"Betty!" a shrill whisper, apparently in the lilac bushes down by
the fence, startled Betty from her day dreams. 

"Betty!" came the whisper again. 

"Is that you, Ted?" called Betty, standing up and looking
expectantly toward the bushes. 

"Sh! don't let ma hear you." Ted Arnold parted the lilac bushes
sufficiently to show his round, perspiring face. "George and me's
going fishing, and we hid the can of worms under the
wheelbarrow. Hand 'em to us, will you, Betty? If ma sees us, she'll
want something done." 

"Did you go to the post-office this morning?" demanded Betty
severely. 

"Sure I did. There wasn't anything but a postal from pa," came the
answer from the bushes. "He's coming home next week, and then
it'll be nothing but work in the garden all day long. Hand us the can
of worms, like a good sport, won't you?" 

"Where did you hide them?" asked Betty absently. 

"Under the wheelbarrow, there at the end of the arbor," directed
Ted.  "Thanks awfully, Betty." 

"Where's George?" she asked. "Isn't there another mail at eleven,
Ted?" 

"Oh, Betty, how you do harp on one subject," complained Ted,
poking about in his can of worms with a stick, but keeping
carefully out of sight of the kitchen window and the maternal eye.
"Hardly anything ever comes in that eleven o'clock mail. Anyway,
didn't mother say your uncle would probably come without
bothering to write again?" 

"I suppose he will," sighed Betty. "Only it seems so long to wait.
Where did you say George was?" 

Ted answered reluctantly. 

"He's in swimming." 

"Well I must say!   You wait till your father comes home," said
Betty ominously. 

The boys had been forbidden to go swimming in the treacherous
creek hole, and George was where he had no business to be. 

"You needn't tell everything you know," mut- tered Ted
uncomfortably, picking up his treasured can and preparing to
depart. 

"Oh, I won't tell," promised Betty quickly. She went back to her
weeding, and Ted scuf- fled off to fish. 

"Goodness!" Betty pushed the hair from her forehead with a grimy
hand. "I do believe this 

is the warmest day we've had!  I'll be glad when I get down to the
other end where the arbor makes a little shade." 

She had reached the end of the long row and had stood up to rest
her back when she saw some one leaning over the white picket
fence. 

"Probably wants a drink of water," thought Betty, crossing the strip
of garden and grass to ask him, after the friendly fashion of
Pineville folk. "I've never seen him before." 

The stranger was leaning over the fence, staring abstractedly at a
border of sweet alyssum which straggled down one side of the
sunken brick walk. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and his
straw hat pushed slightly back on his head revealed a keen, tanned
face and close-cropped iron gray hair. He did not look up as Betty
drew near and suddenly she felt shy. 

"I—I beg your pardon," she faltered, "were you looking for any
particular house?" 

The stranger lifted his hat, and a pair of sharp blue eyes smiled
pleasantly into Betty's brown ones. 

"I was looking, not for a particular house, but for a particular
person," admitted the man, gazing at her intently. "I shouldn't
wonder if I had found her, too. Can you guess who I am?" Betty's
mind was so full of one subject that it would have been strange
indeed if she had failed to guess correctly. 

"You're Uncle Dick!" she cried, throwing her arms around his neck
and running the risk of spiking herself on the sharp pickets. "Oh, I
thought you'd never come!" 

Uncle Dick, for it really was Mr. Gordon, hurdled the low fence
lightly and stood smiling down on his niece. 

"I don't believe in wasting time writing  letters," he declared
cheerfully, "especially as I seldom know my plans three days
ahead. You're the image of your father, child. I should have known
you anywhere." 

Betty put her hands behind her, suddenly conscious that they could
not be very clean. 

"I'm afraid I mussed your collar," she apologized contritely. "Mrs.
Arnold was hoping you'd write so she could have me all scrubbed
up for you;" and here Betty's dimple would flicker out. 

Mr. Gordon put an arm about the little figure in the grass-stained
rose-colored smock. 

"I'd rather find you a garden girl," he announced contentedly. "Isn't
there a place where you and I can have a little talk before we go in
to see Mrs. Arnold and make our explanations?" Betty drew him
toward the arbor. She knew they would be undisturbed there. 

CHAPTER II UNCLE DICK'S PLAN

THE arbor was rather small and rickety, but at least it was shady.
Betty sat down beside her uncle, who braced his feet against the
opposite seat to keep his place on the narrow ledge. 

"I'm afraid I take up a good deal of room," he said apologetically.
"Well, my dear, had you begun to think I was never coming?" 

Betty glanced up at him bravely. "It was pretty long—waiting," she
admitted. "But now you're here, Uncle Dick, everything is all right.
When can we go away?" 

"Aren't you happy here, dear?" asked her uncle, plainly troubled. "I
thought from your first letter that Mrs. Arnold was a pretty good
kind of friend, and I pictured you as contented as a girl could
possibly be after a bitter loss like yours." 

He smiled a bit ruefully. 

"Maybe I'm not strong on pictures," he added. "I thought of you as
a little girl, Betty. Don't know what'll you say, but there's a doll in
my grip for you." 

Betty laughed musically. 

"I've always saved my old doll," she confided, slipping a hand into
Uncle Dick's broad fist where it lay clinched on his knee. He was
very companionable, was this uncle, and she felt that she already
loved him dearly.  "But, Uncle Dick, I haven't really played with
dolls since we moved from the city. I like outdoor things." 

"Well, now, so do I," agreed her uncle. "I can't seem to breathe
properly unless I'm outdoors. But about this going away—do you
want to leave Pineville, Sister?" 

Betty's troubled eyes rested on the little garden hot in the bright
sunshine. 

"It isn't home any more, without mother," she said slowly. "And—I
don't belong, Uncle Dick. Mrs. Arnold is a dear, and I love her and
she loves me. But they want to go to California, though they won't
talk it before me, 'cause they think I'll feel in the way. Mr. Arnold
has a brother on a fruit farm, and he's wild to move out there.   As
soon as you take me somewhere, they're going to pack up." 

"Well, then, we'll have to see that you do belong somewhere," said
Mr. Gordon firmly. "Anything else, Sister?" 

Betty drew a deep breath. 

"It's heavenly to have you to listen to me," she declared. "I want to
go! I've never been anywhere, and I feel as though I could go and
go and never stop. Daddy was like that. Mother used to say if he
hadn't had us to look after he would have been an explorer, but that
he had to manage to earn a living and do his traveling as a
salesman. Couldn't I learn to be a salesman, a saleswoman, I
mean? Lots of girls do travel." 

"We'll think it over," answered her uncle diplomatically. 

"And then there's another thing," went on Betty, her pent-up
thoughts finding relief in speech. "Although Mrs. Arnold was
mother's dearest friend, I can't make her understand how mother
felt about wearing mourning." 

Betty indicated her rose smock. 

"Lots of Pineville folks think I don't care about losing my mother,"
she asserted softly, "because I haven't a single black dress.  But
mother said mourning was selfish. She wouldn't wear black when
daddy died. Black makes other people feel sorry. But I did love
mother! And do yet!" 

Uncle Dick's keen blue eyes misted and the brave little figure in
the bright smock was blurred for a moment. 

"I suppose the whole town has been giving you reams of advice,"
he said irrelevantly. "Well Betty, I can't promise to take you with
me—bless me, what would an old bachelor like me do with a young
lady like you? But I think I know of a place where you can spend a
summer and be neither lonesome nor unhappy. And perhaps in the
fall we can make other arrangements." 

Betty was disappointed that he did not promise to take her with
him at once. But she had been trained not to tease, and she
accepted the compromise as pleasantly as it was offered. 

"Mrs. Arnold will be disappointed if you don't go round to the
front door," she informed her uncle, as he stretched his long legs
preparatory to rising from the low seat. "Company always comes
to the front door, Uncle Dick." 

Mr. Gordon stepped out of the summer house and turned toward
the gate. 

"We'll walk around and make a proper entry," he declared
obligingly. "I meant to, and then as I came up the street I
remembered how we used to cut across old Clinton's lot and climb
the fence. So I had to come the back way for old times' sake." 

Betty's eyes were round with wonder. 

"Did you ever live in Pineville?" she asked in astonishment. 

"You don't mean to tell me you didn't know that?" Uncle Dick was
as surprised as his niece. "Why, they shipped me into this town to
read law with old Judge Clay before they found there was no law
in me, and your father first met your mother one Sunday when he
drove twenty miles from the farm to see me." 

Betty was still pondering over this when they reached the Arnold
front door and Mrs. Arnold, flustered and delighted, answered Mr.
Gordon's knock. 

"Sit right down on the front porch where it's cool," she insisted
cordially. "I've just put on my dinner, and you'll have time for a
good talk. No, Betty, there isn't a thing you can do to help me—you
entertain your uncle." 

But Betty, who knew that excitement always affected Mrs.
Arnold's bump of neatness, determined to set the table, partly to
help her hostess and partly, it must be confessed, to make sure that
the knives and forks and napkins were in their proper places. 

"I'm sure I don't know where those boys can be," scolded the
flushed but triumphant mother, as she tested the flaky chicken
dumplings and pronounced the dinner "done to a turn." "We'll just
sit down without them, and it'll do 'em good," she decided. 

Betty ran through the hall to call her uncle. Just as she reached the
door two forlorn figures toiled up the porch steps. 

"Where's ma?" whispered Ted, for the moment not seeing the
stranger and appealing to Betty, who stood in the doorway. "In the
kitchen? We thought maybe we could sneak up the front stairs." 

Ted was plastered from head to foot with slimy black mud, and
George, his younger edition, was draped only in a wet bath towel.
Both boys clung to their rough fishing rods, and Ted still carried
the dirty tin can that had once held bait. 

"I should say," observed Mr. Gordon in his deep voice, "that we
had been swimming against orders. Things usually happen in such
cases." 

"Oh, gee!" sighed Ted despairingly. "Who's that? Company?" 

Mrs. Arnold had heard the talk, and she came to the door now,
pushing Betty aside gently. 

"Well, I must say you're a pretty sight," she told her children. "If
your father were at home you know what would happen to you
pretty quick. Betty's uncle here, too! Aren't you ashamed of
yourselves ? I declare, I've a good mind to whip you good. Where
are your clothes, George?" 

"They—they floated away," mumbled George. "Ted borrowed this
towel. It's Mrs. Smith's. Say, ma, we're awful hungry." 

"You march upstairs and get cleaned up," said their mother sternly.
"We're going to sit down to dinner this minute. Chicken and
dumplings. When you come down looking like Christians I'll see
about giving you something to eat." 

Midway in the delicious dinner Ted and George sidled into the
room, very wet and shiny as to hair and conspicuously immaculate
as to shirt and collar. Mrs. Arnold relented at the transformation
and proceeded to pile two plates high with samples of her culinary
skill. 

"Betty," said Mr. Gordon suddenly, "is there a garage here where
we can hire a car?" 

"There isn't a garage in Pineville," answered Betty. "You see we're
off the state road where the automobile traffic goes. There are only
two or three cars in town, and they're for business. . But we can get
a horse and buggy, Uncle Dick." 

"Guess that's better, after all," said Mr. Gordon contentedly. "I
want to talk to you about that plan I spoke of, and we'll stand a
better chance of having our talk if we travel behind a horse. I
wonder—" his eyes twinkled—"if there's a young man about who
would care to earn a quarter by running down to the livery stable
and seeing about a horse and buggy for the afternoon?" 

Ted and George grinned above their respective dishes of ice-cold
rice pudding. 

"I'll go," offered Ted. 

"I'll go, too," promised George. "Can we drive the rig back to the
house?" 

Mr. Gordon said they could, and the two boys dispatched their
dessert in double quick time. While they went down to the town
livery stable, Betty hurried to put on a cool, white frock, but, to
Mrs. Arnold's disappointment, she refused to wear a hat. 

"The buggy top will be up, so my complexion will be safe," Betty
declared merrily, giving Mrs. Arnold a hearty squeeze as that lady
followed her downstairs to the porch where Mr. Gordon was
waiting. 

"What's that? Go without a hat?" he repeated, when Betty
consulted him. "I should say so! You're fifty times prettier with
those smooth braids than with any hat, I don't care how fine it is.
This must be our turnout approaching." 

As he guessed, it was their horse and buggy coming toward the
house. Ted was driving, assisted by George, and the patient horse
was galloping like mad as they urged it on. 

"Never knew a boy of that age who could be trusted to drive
alone," muttered Mr. Gordon, going down to the gate to meet
them. 

The boys beamed at him and Betty, sure that they had pleased with
their haste. They then watched Betty step in, followed by her
uncle, and drive away with something like envy. 

"Are you used to driving, Betty?" asked Mr. Gordon, as he chirped
lightly to the horse that obediently quickened its lagging pace. 

"Why, I've driven some," replied Betty hesitatingly. "But I wouldn't
know what to do if he should be frightened at anything. Do you
like to drive, Uncle?" 

"I'm more used to horseback riding," was the answer. "I hope you'll
have a chance to learn that this summer, Betty. I must have you
measured for a habit and have it sent up to you from the city.
There's no better sport for a man or a woman, to my way of
thinking, than can be found in the saddle." 

"Where am I going?" asked the girl timidly. "Who'll teach me to
ride?" 

"Oh, there'll be some one," said her uncle easily. "I never knew a
ranch yet where there were not good horsemen. The idea came to
me that you might like to spend the summer with Mrs. Peabody,
Betty." 

"Mrs. Peabody?" repeated Betty, puzzled. "Does she live on a
ranch? I'd love to go out West, Uncle Dick." 

CHAPTER III DINING OUT

FOR a moment Mr. Gordon stared at his niece, a puzzled look in
his eyes. Then his face cleared.  

"Oh, I see. You've made a natural mistake," he said. "Mrs. Peabody
doesn't live out West, Betty, but up-state—about one hundred and
fifty miles north of Pineville. I've picked up that word ranch in
California. Everything outside the town limits, from a quarter of an
acre to a thousand, is called a ranch. I should have said farm."  

Betty settled back in the buggy, momentarily disappointed. A farm
sounded so tame and—and ordinary.  

"The plan came to me while I was sitting out on the porch waiting
for dinner," pursued her uncle, unconscious that he had dashed her
hopes. "Your father and I had such a happy childhood on a farm
that I'm sure he would want you to know something about such a
life first-hand. But of course I intend to talk it over with you before
writing to Agatha."  

"Agatha?" repeated Betty.  

"Mrs. Peabody," explained Mr. Gordon. "She and I went to school
together. Last year I happened to run across her brother out in the
mines. He told me that Agatha had married, rather well, I
understood, and was living on a fine, large farm. What did he say
they called their place? 'Bramble Farm'—yes, that's it."  

"Bramble Farm," echoed Betty. "It sounds like wild roses, doesn't
it, Uncle Dick? But suppose Mrs. Peabody doesn't want me to
come to live with her?"  

"Bless your heart, child, this is no permanent arrangement'"
exclaimed her uncle vigorously. "You're my girl, and mighty proud
I am to have such a bonny creature claiming kin with me. I've
knocked about a good bit, and sometimes the going has been right
lonesome."  

He seemed to have forgotten the subject of Bramble Farm for the
moment, and something in his voice made Betty put out a timid
hand and stroke his coat sleeve silently.  

"All right, dear," he declared suddenly, throwing off the serious
mood with the quick shift that Betty was to learn was
characteristic of him. "If your old bachelor uncle had the slightest
idea where he would be two weeks from now, he'd take you with
him and not let you out of his sight. But I don't know; though I
strongly suspect, and it's no place to take a young lady to.
However, if we can fix it up with Agatha for you to spend the
summer with her, perhaps matters will shape up better in the fall.
I'll tell her to get you fattened up a bit; she ought to have plenty of
fresh eggs and milk."  

Betty made a wry face.  

"I don't want to be fat, Uncle Dick," she protested. "I remember a
fat girl in school, and she had an awful time. Is Mrs. Peabody old?" 
Mr. Gordon laughed.  

"That's a delicate question," he admitted. "She's some three or four
years younger than I, I believe, and I'm forty-two. Figure it out to
suit yourself."  

The bay horse had had its own sweet way so far, and now stopped
short, the road barred by a wide gate. It turned its head and looked
reproachfully at the occupants of the buggy.  

"Bless me, I never noticed where we were going," said Mr.
Gordon, surprised. "What's this we're in, Betty, a private lane?
Where does it lead?"  

"Let me open the gate," cried Betty, one foot on the step. "We're in
Mr. Bradway's meadow. Uncle Dick. We can keep right on and
come out on the turnpike. He doesn't care as long as the gates are
kept closed."  

"I'll open the gate," said Mr. Gordon decidedly. "Take the reins and
drive on through."  

Betty obeyed, and Mr. Gordon swung the heavy gate into place
again and fastened it.  

"Is Mrs. Peabody pretty?" asked Betty, as he took his place beside
her and gathered up the lines. "Has she any children?"  

The blue eyes surveyed her quizzically.  

"A real girl, aren't you?" teased her uncle.  

"Why, child, I couldn't tell you to save me, whether Agatha is
pretty or not. I haven't seen her for years. But she has no children.
Her brother, Lem, told me that. She was a pretty girl." Mr. Gordon
added reflectively: "I recollect she had long yellow braids and very
blue eyes. Yes, she's probably a pretty woman."  

To reach the turnpike they had to pass through another barred gate,
and then when they did turn into the main road, Mr. Gordon,
glancing at his watch, uttered an exclamation.  

"Four o'clock," he announced. "Why, it must have been later than I
thought when we started. The horse has taken its own sweet time.
Look, Betty, is there a place around here where we can get some
ice-cream?"  

Betty's eyes danced. Like most twelve-year-old girls, she regarded
ice-cream as a treat.  

"There's a place in Pineville; but let's not go there—the whole town
goes to the drug-store in the afternoons," she answered. "Couldn't
we go as far as Harburton and stop at the ice-cream parlor? The
horse isn't very tired, is it, Uncle Dick?"  

"Considering the pace he has been going, I doubt it." responded
her uncle. "What's the matter with you and me having a regular
lark, Betty? Let's not go back for supper—we'll have it at the hotel.
They can put up the horse, and we'll drive back when it's cooler."  

Betty was thrilled at the idea of eating supper at the Harburton
Hotel; certainly that would be what she called "exciting." But since
her mother's death she had learned to think not only for herself but
for others.  

"Mrs. Arnold would be so worried," she objected, trying to keep
the longing out of her voice. "She'd think we'd been struck at the
grade crossing. And, Uncle Dick, I don't believe this dress is good
enough."  

But Mr. Gordon was not accustomed to being balked by
objections. He swept Betty's aside with a half-dozen words. They
would telephone to Mrs. Arnold. Well, then, if she had no
telephone, they would telephone a near neighbor and get her to
carry the message. As for the dress —here he glanced contentedly at
Betty—he didn't see but that she looked fine enough to attend the
King's wedding. She could wash and freshen up a little when they
reached the hotel.  

Betty's face glowed.  

"You're just like Daddy," she said happily. "Mother used to say she
never had to worry about anything when he was at home. Mrs.
Arnold doesn't either, when her husband's home. Do all husbands
do the deciding, Uncle Dick?"  

Mr. Gordon submitted, amusedly, that as he was not a husband, he
could not give accurate information on that point. But Betty's
active mind was turning over something.  

"Mrs. Arnold says Mr. Arnold makes the boys stand round," she
confided. "I notice they mind him ten times as quick as they do
their mother. But they love him more. Do you make people stand
round, Uncle Dick?"  

Mr. Gordon smiled down into the serious little face tilted to meet
his glance.  

"I haven't much patience with disobedience, I'm afraid," he replied.
"I suppose some of the men I've bossed would consider me a
Tartar. Why, Betty? Are you thinking of going on strike against my
authority? I don't advise you to try it."  

Betty blushed.  

"It isn't that," she said hastily. "But—but— well, I have a temper,
Uncle Dick.  I get so raging mad! If I don't tell you, some one else
will, or else you'll see me 'acting up,' as Mrs. Arnold says, before
you go. So I thought I'd better tell you."  

Mr. Gordon's lips twitched.  

"A temper, out of control, is a mighty useless possession," he said
solemnly. "But as long as you know you've got a spark of fire in
you, Betty, you can watch out for it. Afraid of going on the
rampage while you're at Bramble Farm? Is that what's worrying
you?"  

"Some," confessed his niece, with scarlet cheeks.  

"I'll tell you what to do," counseled Mr. Gordon, and his even,
rather slow voice soothed Betty inexpressibly. "When you get a
'mad fit,' you fly out to the wood pile and chop kindling as hard as
you can. You can't talk and chop wood, and the tongue does most
of the mischief when our tempers get the best of us. You'll
remember that little trick, won't you?"  

Betty promised she would, and, as they were now driving into the
thriving county seat of Harburton, she began to point out the few
places of interest.  

The hotel was opposite the court house, and as they stopped before
the curb and Betty saw the porch well filled with men, with here
and there a woman in a pretty summer dress, she felt extremely
shy. A boy ran up to take their horse and lead it around to the
stables for a rub-down and a comfortable supper. Mr. Gordon
tucked his niece's hand under his arm and marched unconcernedly
up the hotel steps.  

"I suppose he's used to hotels," thought Betty, sinking into one of
the stuffed red velvet chairs at her uncle's bidding and looking
interestedly about her as he went in search of the proprietor. "I
wonder if it's fun to live in a hotel all the time instead of a house."  

Her uncle came back in a few moments with a pleasant-faced,
matronly woman, whom he introduced as the sister of the
proprietor. She was to take Betty upstairs and let her make herself
neat for supper, which would, so the woman said, be ready in
twenty minutes.  

"I'll wait for you right here," promised Mr. Gordon, divining in
Betty's anxious glance a fear that she would have to search for him
on the crowded piazza.  

"You drove in, didn't you?" asked Mrs. Holmes, leading the way
upstairs and ushering Betty into a pretty, chintz-hung room. "You'll
find fresh water in the pitcher, dear.  Didn't your father say you
were from Pineville?"  

Betty, pouring the clear, cool water into the basin, explained that
Mr. Gordon was her uncle and said that they had driven over from
Pineville that afternoon.  

"Well, you want to be careful driving back," cautioned Mrs.
Holmes.  "The flag man goes off duty at six o'clock, and that
crossing lies right in a bad cut. There was a nasty accident there
last week."  

Betty had read of it in the Pineville Post, and thanked Mrs. Holmes
for her warning. When that kind woman had ascertained that Betty
needed nothing more, she excused herself and went down to
superintend the two waitresses.  

Betty managed to smooth her hair nicely with the aid of a
convenient sidecomb, and after bathing her face and hands felt
quite refreshed and neat again. She found her uncle reading a
magazine.  

"Well, you look first rate," he greeted her. "I picked this up off the
table without glancing at it; it's a fashion magazine. It reminds me,
Betty, you'll need some new clothes this summer, eh? You'll have
to take Mrs. Arnold when you go shopping. I wouldn't know a
bonnet from a pair of gloves."  

Betty laughed and slipped her hand into his, and they went toward
the dining room. What a dear Uncle Dick was! She had not had
many new clothes since her father's death. 

CHAPTER IV AT THE CROSSING 

THE country hotel supper was no better than the average of its
kind, but to Betty, to whom any sort of change was "fun," it was
delicious. She and Uncle Dick became better acquainted over the
simple meal in the pleasant dining room than they could ever have
hoped to have been with Mrs. Arnold and the two boys present,
and it was not until her dessert was placed before her that Betty
remembered her friend. 

"Mrs. Arnold will think we're lost!" she exclaimed guiltily. "I
meant to telephone! And oh, Uncle Dick, she does hate to keep
supper waiting." 

Uncle Dick smiled. 

"I telephoned the neighbor you told me about," he said
reassuringly. "She said she would send one of her children right
over with the message. That was while you were upstairs. So I
imagine Mrs. Arnold has George and Ted hard at work drying the
dishes by this time." 

"They don't dry the dishes, 'cause they're boys," explained Betty
dimpling. "In Pineville, the men and boys never think of helping
with the housework. Mother said once that was one reason she fell
in love with daddy—because he came out and helped her to do a
pile of dishes one awfully hot Sunday afternoon." 

After supper Betty and her uncle walked about Harburton a bit,
and Betty glanced into the shop windows.  She knew that probably
her new dresses, at least the material for them, would be bought
here, and she was counting more on the new frocks than even
Uncle Dick knew. 

When they went back to the hotel it was still light, but the horse
was ordered brought around, for they did not want to hurry on the
drive home. 

"I guess I missed not belonging to any body," she said shyly, after a
long silence. 

Uncle Dick glanced down at her understandingly. 

"I've had that feeling, too," he confessed. "We all need a sense of
kinship, I think, Betty. Or a home. I haven't had either for years.
Now you and I will make it up to each other, my girl." 

The darkness closed in on them, and Uncle Dick got out and lit the
two lamps on the dashboard and the little red danger light behind.
Once or twice a big automobile came glaring out of the road ahead
and swept past them with a roar and a rush, but the easy going
horse refused to change its steady trot. But presently, without
warning, it stopped. 

Uncle Dick slapped the reins smartly, with no result. 

"He balks," said Betty apologetically. "I know this horse. The
livery stable man says he never balks on the way home, but I
suppose he was so good all the afternoon he just has to act up
now." 

"Balks!" exploded Uncle Dick.  "Why, no stable should send out a
horse with that habit. Is there any special treatment he favors,
Betty?" he added ironically. Betty considered. 

"Whipping him only makes him worse, they say," she answered.
"He puts his ears back and kicks. Once he kicked a buggy to
pieces. I guess' we'll have to get out and coax him, Uncle Dick." 

Mr. Gordon snorted, but he climbed down and went to the horse's
head. 

"You stay where you are, Betty," he commanded. "I'm not going to
have you dancing all over this dark road and likely to be run down
by a car any minute simply to cater to the whim of a fool horse.
You hold the reins and if he once starts don't stop him; I'll catch
the step as it goes by." 

Betty held the reins tensely and waited. There was no moon, and
clouds hid whatever light they 

might have gained from the stars. It was distinctly eery to be out
on the dark road, miles from any house, with no noise save the
incessant low hum of the summer insects. Betty shivered slightly. 

She could hear her uncle talking in a low tone to the dejected,
drooping, stubborn bay horse, and she could see the dim outline of
his figure. The rays of the buggy lamps showed her a tiny patch of
the wheels and road, but that was every bit she could see. 

Up over the slight rise of ground before them shone a glare,
followed in a second by the headlights of a large touring car.
Abreast of the buggy it stopped. 

"Tire trouble?" asked some one with a hint of laughter in the deep
strong voice. 

"No, head trouble," retorted Mr. Gordon, stepping over to the
driver of the car. "Balky horse." 

"You don't say!" The motorist seemed surprised and interested. "I'd
give you a tow if you were going my way. But, do you know, my
son who runs a farm for me has a way of fixing a horse like that.
He says it's all mental. Beating 'em is a waste of time. Jim
unharnesses a horse that balks with him, leads it on a way and then
rolls the wagon up and gears up again. Horse thinks he's starting all
over—new trip, you see. What's the word I want?" 

"Psychological?" said the sweet, clear voice of Betty promptly. 

"Well, I'll be jiggered!" the motorist swept off his cap. "Thank you,
whoever you are. That's what I wanted to say. Yes, nowadays they
believe in reasoning with a horse. I'll help you unhitch if you say
so." 

"Let me," pleaded Betty. "Please, Uncle Dick. I know quite a lot
about unharnessing. Can't I get out and do one side?" 

The motorist was already out of his car, and at her uncle's brief "all
right," Betty slipped down and ran to the traces. The stranger
observed her curiously. 

"Thought you were older," he said genially. "Where did a little
tyke like you get hold of such a long word?" 

"I read it," replied Betty proudly. "They use   it in the Ladies' Aid
when they want to raise more money than usual and they hate to
ask for it Mrs. Banker says there's a psychological moment to ask
for contributions, and I have to copy the secretary's notes for her." 

"I see," said the stranger. "There! Now, Mr. Heady here is free, and
we'll lead him up the road a way. 

Uncle Dick led the horse, who went willingly enough, and Betty
and the kind friend-in-need, as she called him to herself, each took
a shaft of the light buggy and pulled it after them. To their
surprise, when the horse was again harnessed to the wagon it
started at the word "gid-ap," and gave every evidence of a
determination to do as all good horses do—whatever they are
ordered. 

"Guess he's all right," said the motorist, holding out his hand to
Mr. Gordon. "Now, don't thank me—only ordinary road courtesy, I
assure you. Hope your troubles are over for the night." 

The two men exchanged cards, and, lifting his hat to Betty, though
he couldn't see her in the buggy, the stranger went back to his car. 

"Wasn't he nice?" chattered Betty, as the horse trotted briskly.
Uncle Dick grimly resolved to make it pay for the lost time. "We
might have been stuck all night." 

"Every indication of it," admitted Mr. Gordon. "However, I'm glad
to say that I've always found travelers willing to go to any trouble
to help. Don't ever leave a person in trouble on the road if you can
do one thing to aid him, Betty. I want you to remember that." 

Betty promised, a bit sleepily, for the motion and the soft, night air
were making her drowsy. She sat up, however, when they came in
sight of the winking red and green lights that showed the railroad
crossing. 

"No gateman, is there?" inquired her uncle. "Well, I'll go ahead and
look, and you be ready to drive across when I whistle." 

He climbed down and ran forward, and Betty sat quietly, the reins
held ready in her hand. In a few moments she heard her signal, a
clear, sharp whistle. She spoke to the horse, who moved on at an
irritatingly slow pace. 

"For goodness sake!" said Betty aloud, "can't you hurry?" 

She peered ahead, trying to make out her uncle's figure, but the
heavy pine trees that grew on either side of the road threw shadows
too deep for anything to be plainly outlined. Betty, nervously on
the lockout, scarcely knew when they reached the double track, but
she realized her position with a sickening heart thump when the
horse stopped suddenly. The bay had chosen the grade crossing as
a suitable place to enjoy a second fit of balkiness. 

"Uncle Dick!" cried Betty in terror. "Uncle Dick, he's stopped
again! Come and help me unhitch!" 

No one answered. 

Betty had nerves as strong and as much presence of mind as any
girl of her age, but a woman grown might consider that she had
cause for hysterics if she found herself late at night marooned in
the middle of a railroad track with a balky horse and no one near
to give her even a word of advice. For a moment Betty rather lost
her head and screamed for her uncle. This passed quickly though,
and she became calmer. The whip she knew was useless. So was
coaxing. There was nothing to do with any certainty of success but
to unharness the horse and lead her over. But where was Uncle
Dick?          

Betty jumped down from the buggy and ran ahead into the
darkness, calling. 

"Uncle Dick!" shouted Betty. "Uncle Dick, where are you?" 

The cheery little hum of the insects filled the silence as soon as her
voice died away. There was no other sound. Common sense
coming to her aid, Betty reasoned that her uncle would not have
gone far from the crossing, and she soon began to retrace her
steps) calling at intervals. As she came back to the twinkling red
and green lights, she heard a noise that brought her heart into her
throat. Some one had groaned! 

"He's hurt!" she thought instantly. 

The groan was repeated, and, listening care- fully, Betty detected
that it came from the other side of the road. A few rods away from
the flagman's house was a pit that had recently been excavated for
some purpose and then abandoned. Betty peered down into this. 

"Uncle Dick?" she said softly. 

Another deep groan answered her. 

Betty ran back to the buggy and managed to twist one of the lamps
from the dashboard. She was back in a second, and carefully
climbed down into the pit. Sure enough, huddled in a deplorable
heap, one foot twisted under him, lay Mr. Gordon. 

Betty had had little experience with accidents, but she instinctively
took his head in her lap and loosened his collar.  He was
unconscious, but when she moved him he groaned again
heartbreakingly. 

"How shall I ever get him up to the road?" wondered Betty,
wishing she knew something of first-aid treatment. "If I could drag
him up and then go and get the horse and buggy—" 

Her pulse gave an astounding leap and her brown eyes dilated. 
Putting her uncle's head back gently on the gravel, she scrambled
to her feet, feeling only that whatever she did she must  not waste
time in screaming. She had heard the whistle of a train! 

CHAPTER IV AT THE CROSSING 

THE country hotel supper was no better than the average of its
kind, but to Betty, to whom any sort of change was "fun," it was
delicious. She and Uncle Dick became better acquainted over the
simple meal in the pleasant dining room than they could ever have
hoped to have been with Mrs. Arnold and the two boys present,
and it was not until her dessert was placed before her that Betty
remembered her friend. 

"Mrs. Arnold will think we're lost!" she exclaimed guiltily. "I
meant to telephone! And oh, Uncle Dick, she does hate to keep
supper waiting." 

Uncle Dick smiled. 

"I telephoned the neighbor you told me about," he said
reassuringly. "She said she would send one of her children right
over with the message. That was while you were upstairs. So I
imagine Mrs. Arnold has George and Ted hard at work drying the
dishes by this time." 

"They don't dry the dishes, 'cause they're boys," explained Betty
dimpling. "In Pineville, the men and boys never think of helping
with the housework. Mother said once that was one reason she fell
in love with daddy—because he came out and helped her to do a
pile of dishes one awfully hot Sunday afternoon." 

After supper Betty and her uncle walked about Harburton a bit,
and Betty glanced into the shop windows.  She knew that probably
her new dresses, at least the material for them, would be bought
here, and she was counting more on the new frocks than even
Uncle Dick knew. 

When they went back to the hotel it was still light, but the horse
was ordered brought around, for they did not want to hurry on the
drive home. 

"I guess I missed not belonging to any body," she said shyly, after a
long silence. 

Uncle Dick glanced down at her understandingly. 

"I've had that feeling, too," he confessed. "We all need a sense of
kinship, I think, Betty. Or a home. I haven't had either for years.
Now you and I will make it up to each other, my girl." 

The darkness closed in on them, and Uncle Dick got out and lit the
two lamps on the dashboard and the little red danger light behind.
Once or twice a big automobile came glaring out of the road ahead
and swept past them with a roar and a rush, but the easy going
horse refused to change its steady trot. But presently, without
warning, it stopped. 

Uncle Dick slapped the reins smartly, with no result. 

"He balks," said Betty apologetically. "I know this horse. The
livery stable man says he never balks on the way home, but I
suppose he was so good all the afternoon he just has to act up
now." 

"Balks!" exploded Uncle Dick.  "Why, no stable should send out a
horse with that habit. Is there any special treatment he favors,
Betty?" he added ironically. Betty considered. 

"Whipping him only makes him worse, they say," she answered.
"He puts his ears back and kicks. Once he kicked a buggy to
pieces. I guess' we'll have to get out and coax him, Uncle Dick." 

Mr. Gordon snorted, but he climbed down and went to the horse's
head. 

"You stay where you are, Betty," he commanded. "I'm not going to
have you dancing all over this dark road and likely to be run down
by a car any minute simply to cater to the whim of a fool horse.
You hold the reins and if he once starts don't stop him; I'll catch
the step as it goes by." 

Betty held the reins tensely and waited. There was no moon, and
clouds hid whatever light they 

might have gained from the stars. It was distinctly eery to be out
on the dark road, miles from any house, with no noise save the
incessant low hum of the summer insects. Betty shivered slightly. 

She could hear her uncle talking in a low tone to the dejected,
drooping, stubborn bay horse, and she could see the dim outline of
his figure. The rays of the buggy lamps showed her a tiny patch of
the wheels and road, but that was every bit she could see. 

Up over the slight rise of ground before them shone a glare,
followed in a second by the headlights of a large touring car.
Abreast of the buggy it stopped. 

"Tire trouble?" asked some one with a hint of laughter in the deep
strong voice. 

"No, head trouble," retorted Mr. Gordon, stepping over to the
driver of the car. "Balky horse." 

"You don't say!" The motorist seemed surprised and interested. "I'd
give you a tow if you were going my way. But, do you know, my
son who runs a farm for me has a way of fixing a horse like that.
He says it's all mental. Beating 'em is a waste of time. Jim
unharnesses a horse that balks with him, leads it on a way and then
rolls the wagon up and gears up again. Horse thinks he's starting all
over—new trip, you see. What's the word I want?" 

"Psychological?" said the sweet, clear voice of Betty promptly. 

"Well, I'll be jiggered!" the motorist swept off his cap. "Thank you,
whoever you are. That's what I wanted to say. Yes, nowadays they
believe in reasoning with a horse. I'll help you unhitch if you say
so." 

"Let me," pleaded Betty. "Please, Uncle Dick. I know quite a lot
about unharnessing. Can't I get out and do one side?" 

The motorist was already out of his car, and at her uncle's brief "all
right," Betty slipped down and ran to the traces. The stranger
observed her curiously. 

"Thought you were older," he said genially. "Where did a little
tyke like you get hold of such a long word?" 

"I read it," replied Betty proudly. "They use   it in the Ladies' Aid
when they want to raise more money than usual and they hate to
ask for it Mrs. Banker says there's a psychological moment to ask
for contributions, and I have to copy the secretary's notes for her." 

"I see," said the stranger. "There! Now, Mr. Heady here is free, and
we'll lead him up the road a way. 

Uncle Dick led the horse, who went willingly enough, and Betty
and the kind friend-in-need, as she called him to herself, each took
a shaft of the light buggy and pulled it after them. To their
surprise, when the horse was again harnessed to the wagon it
started at the word "gid-ap," and gave every evidence of a
determination to do as all good horses do—whatever they are
ordered. 

"Guess he's all right," said the motorist, holding out his hand to
Mr. Gordon. "Now, don't thank me—only ordinary road courtesy, I
assure you. Hope your troubles are over for the night." 

The two men exchanged cards, and, lifting his hat to Betty, though
he couldn't see her in the buggy, the stranger went back to his car. 

"Wasn't he nice?" chattered Betty, as the horse trotted briskly.
Uncle Dick grimly resolved to make it pay for the lost time. "We
might have been stuck all night." 

"Every indication of it," admitted Mr. Gordon. "However, I'm glad
to say that I've always found travelers willing to go to any trouble
to help. Don't ever leave a person in trouble on the road if you can
do one thing to aid him, Betty. I want you to remember that." 

Betty promised, a bit sleepily, for the motion and the soft, night air
were making her drowsy. She sat up, however, when they came in
sight of the winking red and green lights that showed the railroad
crossing. 

"No gateman, is there?" inquired her uncle. "Well, I'll go ahead and
look, and you be ready to drive across when I whistle." 

He climbed down and ran forward, and Betty sat quietly, the reins
held ready in her hand. In a few moments she heard her signal, a
clear, sharp whistle. She spoke to the horse, who moved on at an
irritatingly slow pace. 

"For goodness sake!" said Betty aloud, "can't you hurry?" 

She peered ahead, trying to make out her uncle's figure, but the
heavy pine trees that grew on either side of the road threw shadows
too deep for anything to be plainly outlined. Betty, nervously on
the lockout, scarcely knew when they reached the double track, but
she realized her position with a sickening heart thump when the
horse stopped suddenly. The bay had chosen the grade crossing as
a suitable place to enjoy a second fit of balkiness. 

"Uncle Dick!" cried Betty in terror. "Uncle Dick, he's stopped
again! Come and help me unhitch!" 

No one answered. 

Betty had nerves as strong and as much presence of mind as any
girl of her age, but a woman grown might consider that she had
cause for hysterics if she found herself late at night marooned in
the middle of a railroad track with a balky horse and no one near
to give her even a word of advice. For a moment Betty rather lost
her head and screamed for her uncle. This passed quickly though,
and she became calmer. The whip she knew was useless. So was
coaxing. There was nothing to do with any certainty of success but
to unharness the horse and lead her over. But where was Uncle
Dick?          

Betty jumped down from the buggy and ran ahead into the
darkness, calling. 

"Uncle Dick!" shouted Betty. "Uncle Dick, where are you?" 

The cheery little hum of the insects filled the silence as soon as her
voice died away. There was no other sound. Common sense
coming to her aid, Betty reasoned that her uncle would not have
gone far from the crossing, and she soon began to retrace her
steps) calling at intervals. As she came back to the twinkling red
and green lights, she heard a noise that brought her heart into her
throat. Some one had groaned! 

"He's hurt!" she thought instantly. 

The groan was repeated, and, listening care- fully, Betty detected
that it came from the other side of the road. A few rods away from
the flagman's house was a pit that had recently been excavated for
some purpose and then abandoned. Betty peered down into this. 

"Uncle Dick?" she said softly. 

Another deep groan answered her. 

Betty ran back to the buggy and managed to twist one of the lamps
from the dashboard. She was back in a second, and carefully
climbed down into the pit. Sure enough, huddled in a deplorable
heap, one foot twisted under him, lay Mr. Gordon. 

Betty had had little experience with accidents, but she instinctively
took his head in her lap and loosened his collar.  He was
unconscious, but when she moved him he groaned again
heartbreakingly. 

"How shall I ever get him up to the road?" wondered Betty,
wishing she knew something of first-aid treatment. "If I could drag
him up and then go and get the horse and buggy—" 

Her pulse gave an astounding leap and her brown eyes dilated. 
Putting her uncle's head back gently on the gravel, she scrambled
to her feet, feeling only that whatever she did she must  not waste
time in screaming. She had heard the whistle of a train! 

CHAPTER V  MRS. PEABODY WRITES 

THE bad, little stubborn horse standing on the track at the mercy
of the coming comet! That was Betty's thought as she sped down
the road. In the hope that a sense of the danger might have reached
the animal's instinct, she gave the bridle a desperate tug when she
reached the horse, but it was of no use. Feverishly Betty set to
work to unharness the little bay horse. 

She was unaccustomed to many of the buckles, and the harness
was stiff and unyielding. Working at it in a hurry was very
different from the few times she had done it for fun, or with some
one to manage all the hard places. She had finished one side when
the whistle sounded again. To the girl's overwrought nerves it
seemed to be just around the curve. She had no thought of
abandoning the animal, however, and she set her teeth and began
on the second set of snaps and buckles. These, too, gave way, and
with a strong push Betty sent the buggy flying backward free of the
tracks, and, seizing the bridle, she led the cause of all the trouble
forward and into safety. 

For the third time the whistle blew warningly, and this time the
noise of the train could be plainly heard. But it was nearly a
minute before the glare of the headlight showed around the curve. 

"Look what didn't hit you, no thanks to you," Betty scolded the
horse, as a relief to herself. "I 'most wish I'd left you there; only
then we never would get Uncle Dick home." 

Poor Betty had now the hardest part of her task before her. She
went back and dragged the buggy over the tracks, up to the horse
and started the tedious business of harnessing again. She was not
sure where all the straps went, but she hoped enough of them
would hold together till they could get home. When she had
everything a» nearly in place as she could get them, she climbed
down into the pit. 

To her surprise, her uncle's eyes were open. He lay gazing at the
buggy lamp she had, left. 

"Uncle Dick," she whispered, "are you hurt?  Can you walk?
Because you're so big, I can't pull you out very well." 

"Why, I can't be hurt," said her uncle slowly in his natural voice.
"What's happened? Where are we? Goodness, child, you look like
a ghost with a dirty face." 

Betty was not concerned with her looks at that moment, and she
was so delighted to find her uncle conscious that she did not feel
offended at his uncomplimentary remark. In a few words she
sketched for him what had happened. 

"My dear child!" he ejaculated when she had told him, "have you
been through all that? Why, you're the pluckiest little woman I
ever heard of! No wonder you look thoroughly done up. All I
remember is whistling for you to come ahead and then taking a
step that landed me nowhere. In other words, I must have stepped
into this pit. I'm not hurt—just a bit dazed." 

To prove it, he got to his feet a trifle shakily. Declining Betty's
assistance, he managed to scramble out of the pit, up on to the
road. His head cleared rapidly, and in a few more moments he
declared he felt like himself. 

"In with you," he ordered Betty, after a preliminary examination of
the harness which, he announced, was "as right as a trivet."
"You've done your share for to-night. Go to sleep, if you like, and
I'll wake you up in time to hear Mrs. Arnold send Ted out to take
the horse around to the livery stable. It wouldn't do for me to do it—
I might murder the owner!" 

Betty leaned her head against her uncle's broad shoulder, for a
minute she thought, and when she woke found herself being
helped gently from the buggy. 

"You're all right, Betty," soothed Mrs. Arnold's voice in the
darkness. "I've worried myself sick! Do you know it's one o'clock?" 

Mr. Gordon took the wagon around to the stable, and Betty, with
Mrs. Arnold's help, got ready for bed. 

Betty was fast asleep almost before the undressing was completed,
and she slept until late the next morning. When she came down to
the luxury of a special breakfast, she found only Mrs. Arnold in the
house. 

"Your uncle's gone out to post a letter," that voluble lady informed
her.  "Both boys have gone fishing again. I'm only waiting for their
father to come home and straighten 'em out. Will you have cocoa,
dearie?" 

Before she had quite finished her breakfast, Mr. Gordon came
back from the post-office, and then, as Mrs. Arnold wanted to go
over to a neighbor's to borrow a pattern, he sat down opposite
Betty. 

"You look rested," he commented. "I don't like to think what might
have happened last night. However, we'll be optimistic and look
ahead. I've written to Mrs. Peabody, dear, and to-morrow I think
you and Mrs. Arnold had better go shopping. I'll write you a check
this morning. Agatha will want you to come, I know. And to tell
you the truth, Betty, I've had a letter that makes me anxious to be
off. I want to stay to see you safely started for Bramble Farm, and
then I must peg away at this new work.  Finished? Then let's go
into the sitting room and I'll ex- plain about the check." 

The next morning Betty and Mrs. Arnold started for Harburton
with what seemed to Betty a small fortune folded in her purse.
Mrs. Arnold had shown her how to cash the check at the Pineville
Bank, and she was to advise as to material and value of the
clothing Betty might select; but the outfit was to represent Betty's
choice and was to please her primarily—Uncle Dick had made this
very clear. 

Betty had learned a good deal about shopping in the last months of
her mother's illness, and she did not find it difficult to choose
suitable and pretty ginghams for her frocks, a middy blouse or two,
some new smocks, and a smart blue sweater. She very sensibly
decided that as she was to spend the summer on a farm she did not
need elaborate clothes, and she knew, from listening to Mrs.
Arnold, that those easiest to iron would probably please Mrs.
Peabody most whether she did her own laundry work or had a
washerwoman. 

When the purchases came home Uncle Dick delighted Betty with
his warm approval. For a couple of days the sewing machine
whirred from morning to night as the village dressmaker sewed
and fitted the new frocks and made the old presentable. Then the
letter from Mrs. Peabody arrived. 

"I will be very glad to have your niece spend the summer with me,"
she wrote, in a fine, slanting hand. "The question of board, as you
arrange it, is satisfactory. I would not take anything for her, you
know, Dick, and for old times' sake would welcome her without
compensation, but living is so dreadfully high these days. Joseph
has not had good luck lately, and there are so many things against
the farmer . . . Let me know when to expect Betty and some one
will meet her." 

The letter rambled on for several pages, complaining rather
querulously of hard times and the difficulties under which the
writer and her husband managed to "get along." 

"Doesn't sound like Agatha, somehow," worried Uncle Dick, a
slight frown between his eyes. "She was always a good-natured,
happy kind of girl. But most likely she can't write a sunny letter. I
know we used to have an aunt whose letters were always referred
to as 'calamity howlers.' Yet to meet her you'd think she hadn't a
care in the world. Yes, probably Agatha puts her blues into her
letters and so doesn't have any left to spill around where she lives." 

Several times that day Betty saw him pull the letter from his
pocket and re-read it, always with the puzzled lines between his
brows. Once he called to her as she was going upstairs. 

"Betty," he said rather awkwardly, "I don't know exactly how to
put it, but you're going to board with Mrs. Peabody, you know.
You'll be independent—not 'beholden,' as the country folk say, to
her. I want you to like her and to help her, but, oh, well, I guess I
don't know what I am trying to say. Only remember, child, if you
don't like Bramble Farm for any good reason, I'll see that you don't
have to remain there." 

A brand-new little trunk for Betty made its appearance in the front
hall of the Arnold house, and two subdued boys—for Mr. Arnold
had returned home—helped her carry down her new treasures and,
after the clothes were neatly packed, strap and lock the trunk.
There was a tiny "over-night" bag, too, fitted with toilet articles
and just large enough to hold a nightdress and a dressing gown and
slippers. Betty felt very young-ladyish indeed with these traveling
accessories. 

"I'll order a riding habit for you in the first large city I get to,"
promised her uncle. "I want you to learn to ride—1 wrote Agatha
that. She doesn't say anything about saddle horses, but they must
have something you can ride. And you'll write to me, my dear,
faithfully?" 

"Of course," promised Betty, clinging to him, for she had learned
to love him dearly even in the short time they had been together. 
"I'll write to you, Uncle Dick, and I'll do everything you ask me to
do. Then, this winter, do let's keep house." 

"We will," said Uncle Dick, fervently, "if we have to keep house
on the back of a camel in the desert!" At this Betty giggled
delightedly. 

Betty's train left early in the morning, and her uncle went to the
station with her. Mrs. Arnold cried a great deal when she said
good-bye, but Betty cheered her up by picturing the long, chatty
letters they would write to each other and by assuring her friend
that she might yet visit her in California. 

Mr. Gordon placed his niece in the care of the conductor and the
porter, and the last person Betty saw was this gray-haired uncle
running beside the train, waving his hat and smiling at her till her
car passed beyond the platform. 

"Now," said Betty methodically, "if I think back, I shall cry; so I'll
think ahead." 

Which she proceeded to do. She pictured Mrs. Peabody as a
gray-haired, capable, kindly woman, older than Mrs. Arnold, and
perhaps more serene. She might like to be called "Aunt Agatha."'
Mr. Peabody, she decided, would be short and round, with
twinkling blue eyes and perhaps a white stubby beard. He would
probably call her "Sis," and would always be studying how to
make things about the house comfortable for his wife. 

"I hope they have horses and pigs and cows and sheep," mused
Betty, the flying landscape slipping past her window unheeded. 
"And if they have sheep, they'll have a dog. Wouldn't I love to have
a dog to take long walks with! And, of course, there will be a
flower garden. 'Bramble Farm' sounds like a bed of roses to me." 

The idea of roses persisted, and while Betty outwardly was strictly
attentive to the things about her, giving up her ticket at the proper
time, drinking the cocoa and eating the sandwich the porter
brought her (on Uncle Dick's orders she learned) at eleven o'clock,
she was in reality busy picturing a white farmhouse set in the
center of a rose garden, with a hedge of hollyhocks dividing it
from a scarcely less beautiful and orderly vegetable kingdom. 

Day dreams, she was soon to learn. 

CHAPTER VI  THE POORHOUSE RAT 

"THE next station's yours, Miss," said the porter, breaking in on
Betty's reflections. "Any small luggage? No? All right, I'll see that
you get off safely." 

Betty gathered up her coat and stuffed the magazine she had
bought from the train boy, but scarcely glanced at, into her bag.
Then she carefully put on her pretty grey silk gloves and tried to
see her face in the mirror of the little fitted purse. She wanted to
look nice when the Peabodys first saw her. 

The train jarred to a standstill. 

Betty hurried down the aisle to find the porter waiting for her with
his little step. She was the only person to leave the train at Hagar's
Corners, and, happening to glance down the line of cars, she saw
her trunk, the one solitary piece of bag- gage, tumbled none too
gently to the platform. 

The porter with his step swung aboard the train which began to
move slowly out. Betty felt unaccountably small and deserted
standing there, and as the platform of the last car swept past her,
she was conscious of a lump in her throat. 

"Hello!" blurted an oddly attractive voice at her shoulder, a boy's
voice, shy and brusque but with a sturdy directness that promised
strength and honesty. 

The blue eyes into which Betty turned to look were honest, too,
and the shock of tow-colored hair and the half-embarrassed grin
that displayed a set of uneven, white teeth instantly prepossessed
the girl in favor of the speaker. There was a splash of brown
freckles across the snub nose, and the tanned cheeks and blue
overalls told Betty that a country lad stood before her. 

"Hello!" she said politely. "You're from Mr. Peabody's, aren't you?
Did they send you to meet me?" 

"Yes, Mr. Peabody said I was to fetch you," replied the boy. "I
knew it was you, 'cause no one else got off the train. If you'll give
me your trunk check I'll help the agent put it in 'the wagon. He
locks up and goes off home in a little while." 

Betty produced the check and the boy disappeared into the little
one-room station. The girl for the first time looked about her. 
Hagar's Corners, it must be confessed, was not much of a place, if
one judged from the station. The station itself was not much more
than a shanty, sadly in need of paint and minus the tiny patch of
green lawn that often makes the least pretentious railroad station
pleasant to the eye. Cinders filled in the road and the ground about
the platform. Hitched to a post Betty now saw a thin sorrel horse
harnessed to a dilapidated spring wagon with a board laid across it
in lieu of a seat. To her astonishment, she saw her trunk lifted into
this wagon by the station agent and the boy who had spoken to her. 

"Why—why, it doesn't look very comfort- able," said Betty to
herself. "I wonder if that's the best wagon Mr. Peabody has? But
perhaps his good horses are busy, or the carriage is broken or
something." 

The boy unhitched the sorry nag and drove up to the platform
where Betty was waiting. His face flushed under his tan as he
jumped down to help her in. 

"I'm afraid it isn't nice enough for you," he said, glancing with
evident admiration at Betty's frock. "I spread that salt bag on the
seat so you wouldn't get rust from the nails in that board on your
dress. I'm awfully sorry I haven't a robe to put over your lap." 

"Oh, I'm all right," Betty hastened to assure him tactfully. Then,
with a desire to put him at his ease, "Where is the town?" she
asked. They had turned from the station straight into a country
road, and Betty had not seen a single house. 

"Hagar's Corners is just a station," explained the lad. "Mostly milk
is shipped from it. All the trading is done at Glenside. There's
stores and schools and a good-sized town there. Mr. Peabody had
you come to Hagar's Corners 'cause it's half a mile nearer than
Glenside. The horse has lost a shoe, and he doesn't want to run up
a blacksmith's bill till the foot gets worse than it is." 

Betty's brown eyes widened with amazement. 

"That horse is limping now," she said severely. "Do you mean to
tell me Mr. Peabody will let a horse get a sore foot before he'll pay
out a little money to have it shod?" 

The boy turned and looked at her with something smoldering in his
face that she did not understand. Betty was not used to bitterness. 

"Joe Peabody," declared the boy impressively, "would let his own
wife go without shoes if he thought she could get through as much
work as she can with 'em. Look at my feet!" He thrust out a pair of
rough, heavy work shoes, the toes patched abominably, the laces
knotted in half a dozen places; Betty noticed that the heel of one
was ripped so that the boy's skin showed through. "Let his horse go
to save a blacksmith's bill!" repeated the lad contemptuously. "I
should think? he would! The only thing that counts with Joe
Peabody in this world is money!" 

Betty's heart sank. To what kind of a home had she come ? Her
head was beginning to ache, and the glare of the sun on the white,
dusty road hurt her eyes. She wished that the wagon had some kind
of top, or that the board seat had a back. 

"Is it very much further?" she asked wearily. 

"I'll bet you're tired," said the boy quickly. "We've a matter of three
miles to go yet. The sorrel can't make extra good time even when
he has a fair show, but I aim to favor his sore foot if I do get dished
out of my dinner," 

"I'm so hungry," declared Betty, restored to vivacity at the thought
of luncheon. "All I had on the train was a cup of chocolate and a
sandwich. Aren't you hungry, too?" 

"Considering that all I've had since breakfast at six this morning, is
an apple I stole while hunting through the orchard for the turkeys,
I'll say I'm starved," admitted the boy. "But I'll have to wait till six
to-night, and so will you." 

"But I haven't had any lunch!" Betty protested vigorously. "Of
course, Mrs. Peabody will let me have something—perhaps they'll
wait for me." 

The boy polled on the lines mechanically as the sorrel stumbled. 

"If that horse once goes down, he'll die in the road and that'll be the
first rest he's known in seven years," he said cryptically.  "No,
Miss, the Peabodys won't wait for you. They wouldn't wait for their
own mother, and that's a fact. Don't I remember seeing the old
lady, who was childish the year before she died, crying up in her
room because no one had called her to breakfast and she came
down too late to get any? Mrs. Peabody puts dinner on the table at
twelve sharp, and them as aren't there have to wait till the next
meal. Joe Peabody counts it that much food saved, and he's got no
intentions of having late-comers gobble it up." 

Betty Gordon's straight little chin lifted. Meekness was not one of
her characteristics, and her fighting spirit rose to combat with
small encouragement. 

"My uncle's paying my board, and I intend to eat," she announced
firmly. "But maybe I'm upsetting the household by coming so late
in the afternoon; only there was no other train till night. I have
some chocolate and crackers in my bag— suppose we eat those
now?" 

"Gee, that will be corking!" the fresh voice of the boy beside her
was charged with fervent appreciation.  "There's a spring up the
road a piece, and we'll stop and get a drink. Chocolate sure will
taste good." 

Betty was quicker to observe than most girls of her age, her sorrow
having taught her to see other people's troubles. As the boy drew
rein at the spring and leaped down to bring her a drink from its
cool depths, she noticed how thin he was and how red and
calloused were his hands. 

"Thank you." She smiled, giving back the cup. "That's the coldest
water I ever tasted. I'm all cooled off now." 

He climbed up beside her again, and the wagon creaked on its
journey. As Betty divided the chocolate and crackers,
unobtrusively giving her driver the larger portion, she suggested
that he might tell her his name. 

"I suppose you know I'm Betty Gordon," she said. "You've
probably heard Mrs. Peabody say she went to school with my
Uncle Dick. Tell me who you are, and then we'll be introduced." 

The mouth of the boy twisted curiously, and a sullen look came
into the blue eyes. 

"You can do without knowing me," he said shortly. "But so long as
you'll hear me yelled at from sun-up to sun-down, I might as well
make you acquainted with my claims to greatness. I'm the
'poorhouse rat'—now pull your blue skirt away." 

"You have no right to talk like that," Betty asserted quietly. "I
haven't given you the slightest reason to. And if you are really from
the poorhouse, you must be an orphan like me. Can't we be good
friends? Besides, I don't know your name even yet." 

The boy looked at the sweet girl face and his own cleared. 

"I'm a pig!" he muttered with youthful vehemence. "My name's
Bob Henderson, Miss. I hadn't any call to flare up like that. But
living with the Peabodys doesn't help a fellow when it comes to
manners. And I am from the poorhouse. Joe Peabody took me
when I was ten years old. I'm thirteen now." 

"I'm twelve," said Betty. "Don't call me Miss, it sounds so stiff. I'm
Betty. Oh, dear, how dreadfully lame that horse is!" 

The poor beast was limping, and in evident pain. Bob Henderson
explained that there was nothing they could do except to let him
walk slowly and try to keep him on the soft edge of the road. 

"He'll have to go five miles to-morrow to Glenside to the
blacksmith's," he said moodily. "I'm ashamed to drive a horse
through the town in the shape this one's in." 

Betty thought indignantly that she would write to the S. P. C. A.  
They must have agents throughout the country, she knew, and
surely it could not be within the law for any farmer to allow his
horse to suffer as the sorrel was plainly suffering. 

"Is Mr. Peabody poor, Bob?" she ventured timidly. "I'm sure Uncle
Dick thought Bramble Farm a fine, large place. He wanted me to
learn to ride horseback this summer." 

"Have to be on a saw-horse," replied Bob ironically. "You bet
Peabody isn't poor! Some say he's worth a hundred thousand if he's
worth a penny. But close—s'ay, that man's so close he puts every
copper through the wringer. You've come to a sweet place, and no
mistake, Betty. I'm kind of sorry to see a girl get caught in the
Peabody maw." 

"I won't stay less I like it," declared Betty quickly. "I'll write to
Uncle Dick, and you can come, too, Bob. Why are we turning in
here?" "This," said Bob Henderson pointing with his whip
dramatically, "is Bramble Farm." 

CHAPTER VII  BRAMBLE FARM 

THE wagon was rattling down a narrow lane, for though the horse
went at a snail's pace, every bolt and hinge in the wagon was loose
and contributed its own measure of noise to their progress. Betty
looked about her with interest. On either side of the lane lay
rolling fertile fields— in the highest state of cultivation, had she
known it. Bramble Farm was famed for its good crops, and
whatever people said of its master, the charge of poor farming was
never laid at his door. The lane turned abruptly into a neglected
driveway, and this led them up to the kitchen door of the
farmhouse. 

"Never unlocks the front door 'cept for the minister or your
funeral," whispered Bob in an aside to Betty, as the kitchen door
opened and a tall, thin man came out. 

"Took you long enough to get here," he greeted the two young
people sourly. "Dinner's been over two hours and more. Hustle that
trunk inside, you Bob, and put up the horse. Wapley and Lieson
need you to help 'em set tomato plants." 

Betty had climbed down and stood helplessly beside the wagon.
Mr. Peabody, for she judged the tall, thin man must be the owner
of Bramble Farm, though he addressed no word directly to her and.
Bob, was too evidently subdued to at- tempt any introduction, but
swung on his heel and strode off in the direction of the barn. There
was nothing for Betty to do but to follow Bob and her trunk into
the house. 

The kitchen was hot and swarming with flies. There were no
screens at the windows, and though the shades were drawn down,
the pests easily found their way into the room. 

"How do you do, Betty? I hope your trip was pleasant. Dinner's all
put away, but it won't be long till supper time. I'm just trying to
brush some of the flies out," and to Betty's surprise a thin flaccid
hand was thrust into hers.   Mrs. Peabody was carrying out her idea
of a hand- shake. 

Betty stared in wonder at the lifeless creature who smiled wanly at
her. What would Uncle Dick say if he saw Agatha Peabody now?
Where were the long yellow braids and the blue eyes he had
described? This woman, thin, absolutely colorless in face, voice
and manner, dressed in a faded, cheap, blue calico wrapper—was
this Uncle Dick's old school friend? 

"Perhaps you'd like to go upstairs to your room and lie down a
while," Mrs. Peabody was saying. "I'll show you where you're to
sleep. How did you leave your uncle, dear?" 

Betty answered dully that he was well. Her mind was too taken up
with new impressions to know very clearly what was said to her. 

"I'm sorry there aren't any screens," apologized her hostess. "But
the flies aren't bad on this side of the house, and the mosquitoes
only come when there's a marsh wind. You'll find water in the
pitcher, and I laid out a clean towel for you. Do you want I should
help you unpack your trunk?" 

Betty declined the offer with thanks, for she wanted to be alone.
She had not noticed Mrs. Peabody's longing glance at the smart
little trunk  but later she was to understand that that afternoon she
had denied a real heart hunger for handling pretty clothes and the
dainty accessories that women love. 

When the door had closed on Mrs. Peabody, Betty sat down on the
bed to think. She found herself in a long, narrow room with two
windows, the sashes propped up with sticks. The floor was bare
and scrubbed very clean and the sheets and pillow cases on the
narrow iron bed, though of coarse unbleached muslin, were
immaculate. Something peculiar about the pillow case made her
lean closer to examine it. It was made of flour or salt bags,
overcasted finely together! 

"'Puts every copper through the wringer.'" The phrase Bob had
used came to Betty. 

"There's no excuse for such things if he isn't poor," she argued
indignantly. "Well, I suppose I'll have to stay a week, anyway. I
might as well wash." 

A half hour later, the traces of travel removed and her dark frock
changed to a pretty pink chambray dress, Betty descended the
stairs to begin her acquaintance with Bramble Farm. She wandered
through several darkened rooms on the first floor and out into the
kitchen without finding Mrs. Peabody. A heavy-set, sullen-faced
man was getting a drink from the tin dipper at the sink. 

"Want some?" he asked, indicating the pump. Betty declined, and
asked if he knew where Mrs. Peabody was. 

"Out in the chicken yard," was the reply. "You the boarder they
been talking about?" 

"I'm Betty Gordon," said the girl pleasantly. 

"Yes, they've been going on for a week about you. Old man's got it
all figured out what he'll do with your board. The missis rather
thought she ought to have half, but he shut her up mighty quick.
Women and money don't hitch up in Peabody's mind." 

He laughed coarsely and went out, drawing a plug of tobacco from
his hip pocket and taking a tremendous chew from it as he closed
the door. 

Betty felt a sudden longing for fresh air, and, waiting only for the
man to get out of sight, she stepped out on the back porch. A
regiment of milk pans were drying in the late afternoon sun and a
churn turned up to air showed that Mrs. Peabody made her own
butter. Betty was still hungry, and the thought of slices of
home-made bread and golden country butter smote her
tantalizingly. 

"I wonder where the chicken yard is," she thought, going down to
the limp gate that swung disconsolately on a rusty hinge. 

The Bramble Farm house, she discovered, looking at it critically,
was apparently suffering for the minor repairs that make a home
attractive. The blinds sagged in several places and in some
instances were missing altogether; once white, the paint was now a
dirty gray; half the pickets were gone from the garden fence; the
lawn was ragged and overgrown with weeds; and the two
discouraged-looking flower-beds were choked this early in the
season. Betty's weeding habits moved her irresistibly to kneel
down and try to free a few of the plants from the mass of tangled
creepers that flourished among them. 

"Better not let Joe Peabody see you doing that," said Bob
Henderson's voice above her. bent head. "He hasn't a mite of use
for a person who wastes time on flower-beds. If you want to see
things in good shape, take a look at the vegetable gardens. The
missis has to keep that clear, 'cause after it's once planted, she's
supposed to feed us all summer from it." 

Betty shook back her hair from a damp forehead. 

"For mercy's sake," she demanded with heat, "is there one pleasant,
kind thing connected with this place? Who was that awful man I
met in the kitchen?" 

"Guess it was Lieson, one of the hired men," replied Bob. "He
came down to the house to get a drink a few minutes ago. He's all
right, Betty, though not much to look at." 

"You, Bob!" came a stentorian shout that shot Bob through the
gate and in the general direction of the voice with a speed that was
little less than astonishing. 

Betty stood up, shook the earth from her skirt, and, guided by the
shrill cackle of a proud hen. picked her way through a rather
cluttered barnyard till she came to a wire-enclosed space that was
the chicken yard. Mrs. Peabody, staggering under the weight of
two heavy pails of water, met her at the gate. 

"How nice you look!" she said wistfully. "Don't come in here, dear;
you might get something on your dress." 

"Oh, it washes," returned Betty carelessly. "Do you carry water for
the chickens?" 

"Twice a day in summer," was the answer. "Before Joe, Mr.
Peabody, had water put in the barns, it was an awful job; but he
couldn't get a man to help him with the cows unless he had running
water at the barn, so this system was new last year. It's a big help." 

Silently, and feeling in the way because she could not help, Betty
watched the woman fill troughs and drinking vessels for the
parched hens that had evidently spent an uncomfortable and dry
afternoon in the shadeless yard. Scattering a meager ration of corn,
Mrs. Peabody went into the hen house and reappeared presently
with a basket filled with eggs. 

"They'd lay better if I could get 'em some meat scraps," she
confided to Betty as they walked toward the house. "But I
dunno—it's so hard to get things done, I've about given up arguing." 

She would not let Betty help her with the sup- per, and was so
insistent that she should not touch a dish that Betty yielded, though
reluctantly. The heat of the kitchen was intense, for Mrs. Peabody
had built a fire of corn cobs in the range Gas, of course, there was
none, and she evidently had not an oil stove or a fireless cooker. 

Precisely at six o'clock the men came in. 

"They milk after supper, summers," Mrs. Pea- body had explained.
"The milk stays sweet longer." 

Betty watched in round-eyed amazement as Mr. Peabody and the
two hired men washed at the sink, with much sputtering and
blowing, and combed their hair before a small cracked mirror
tacked over the sink. If she had not been very hungry, she was sure
the sight would have taken her appetite away. Bob did not come in
till they were seated. He had washed outside, he explained, and
Betty cherished the idea that perhaps he had acted out of
consideration for her. 

"What's that?" demanded Mr. Peabody, pointing his fork at a tiny
pat of butter before Betty's  plate. 

There was no other butter on the table, and only a very plain meal
of bread, fried potatoes, raspberries and hot tea. 

"I—1 had a little butter left over from the last churning," faltered
Mrs. Peabody. " 'Twasn't enough to make even a quarter-pound
print, Joe." 

"Don't believe it," contradicted her husband. "I told you flat,
Agatha, that there was to be no pampering. Betty can eat what we
eat, or go without. Take that butter oft, do you hear me?" 

A sallow flush rose to Mrs. Peabody's thin cheeks, and her lips
moved rebelliously. Evidently her husband was practiced at
reading her soundless words. 

"Board?" he cried belligerently. "What do I care whether she's
paying board or not? Don't I have to be the judge of how the house
should be run? Food was never higher than 'tis now, and you've got
to watch every scrap. You take that butter off and don't let me
catch you doing nothin' like that again." 

The men were eating stolidly, evidently too used to quarrels to pay
any attention to anything but their food. Betty had listened silently,
but the bread she ate seemed to choke her. Suddenly she rose to
her feet, shaking with rage. 

"Take your old butter!" she stormed at the astonished Mr. Peabody.
"I wouldn't eat it, if you begged me to. And I won't stay in your
house one second longer than it takes to have Uncle Dick send for
me—you—you old miserable miser!" 

CHAPTER VIII  BETTY MAKES UP HER MIND 

BETTY had a confused picture of Mr. Peabody staring at her, his
fork arrested half way to his mouth, before she dashed from the
kitchen and fled to her room. She flung herself on the bed and
burst into tears. 

She lay there for a long time, sobbing uncontrollably and more
unhappy than she had ever been in her short life. She missed her
mother and father intolerably, she longed for the kindness of the
good, if querulous, Mrs. Arnold and the comfort of Uncle Dick's
tenderness and protection. 

"He wouldn't want me to stay here, I know he wouldn't!" she
whispered stormily. "He never would have let me come if he had
known what kind of a place Bramble Farm is. I'll write to him
to-night." 

A low whistle came to her. She ran to the window. 

"Ssh! Got a piece of string?" came a sibilant whisper. Bob
Henderson peered up at her from around a lilac bush. "I brought
you some bread with raspberries mashed between it. Let down a
cord and I'll tie it on." 

"I'll come down," said Betty promptly. "Can't we take a walk? It
looks awfully pretty up the lane." 

"I have to clean two more horses and bed down a sick cow and
carry slops to the pigs yet," recited Bob in a matter of fact way, as
though these few little duties were commonly performed at the
close of his long day. "After that, though, we might go a little way.
It won't be dark." 

"Well, whistle when you're ready," directed Betty. "I won't come
down and run the risk of having to talk to Mr. Peabody. And save
me the bread!" 

It seemed a long time before Bob whistled, and the gray summer
dusk was deepening when Betty ran down to join him. He handed
her the bread, wrapped in a bit of clean paper, diffidently. 

"I didn't touch it with my hands," he assured her. 

Bob's face was shining from a vigorous scrubbing and his hair was
plastered tight to his head and still wet. He had so evidently tried
to make himself neat and his poor frayed overalls and ridiculous
shoes made the task so hopeless that Betty was divided between
pity for him and anger at the Peabodys who could treat a member
of their household so shabbily. 

"I guess you kind of shook the old man up," commented Bob,
unconscious of her thoughts. "For half a minute after you slammed
the door, he sat there in a daze. Mrs. Peabody wanted to take some
supper up to you, but he wouldn't let her. She's deathly afraid of
him." 

"Did he ever hit her?" asked Betty, horrified. 

"No, I don't know that he ever did.  He doesn't have to hit her; his
talk is worse. They say she used to answer back, but I never heard
her open her mouth to argue with him, and I've been here three
years." 

"Do they pay you well?" 

The boy looked at Betty sharply. 

"I thought you were kidding," he said frankly. "Poorhouse children
don't get paid. We get our board till we're eighteen. We're not
supposed to do enough work to cover more'n that. Just the same, I
do as much as Wapley or Leisen, any day." 

Betty walked along eating her bread and wondering about Bob
Henderson. Who, she speculated, had been his father and mother,
and how had he happened to find himself in the poorhouse? And
why, oh, why, should such a boy have had the bad luck to be
"taken" by a man like Mr. Peabody? Betty was a courteous girl,
and she could not bring herself to ask Bob these questions
pointblank, however her curiosity urged her. Perhaps when they
were better acquainted, she might have a chance. But that thought
suggested to Betty her letter. 

"I'm going to write to Uncle Dick before I go to bed to-night," she
announced. "He said I needn't stay if for any good reason I found I
wasn't happy here. I can't stay, Bob, honestly I can't. He wouldn't
want me to. Shall I ask him about a place for you? And where do I
mail my letter?" 

Bob Henderson's face fell. He had hoped that this bright, pretty
girl, with her independent and friendly manner, might spend the
summer at Bramble Farm. Bob had been so long cut off from
communication with a companion of his own age that it was a
perfect luxury for him to have Betty to talk to. Still, he could not
help admitting, the Peabody circle had nothing to offer Betty. 

"Don't mail your letter in the box at the end of the lane," he
advised her. "Joe Peabody might see it and take it out. I'll take it to
Glenside with me to-morrow—unless you want to go along? Say,
that would be great, wouldn't it?" 

Betty liked the idea, and so before they turned back to the house
they arranged to mail the letter secretly in Glenside the following
morning. Immensely cheered, Betty went in to write to her uncle
and Bob disappeared up the stairs to the attic, where he and the
two hired men shared quarters. 

It was too dark to see clearly in her room, and after Betty had
groped around in a vain hunt for a lamp and matches, she went
down to the kitchen intending to ask for a light. 

Mrs. Peabody stood at the table, mixing some- thing in a pan, and
a small glass lamp gave the room all the light it had. 

"I'm setting my bread," the woman explained, as Betty came in.
"Where have you been, dear? You must be hungry." 

"No, I'm not hungry," answered Betty, avoiding explanations. "I've
been out for a little walk. May I have a lamp, Mrs. Peabody?" 

Her hostess glanced round to make sure that the door was shut. 

"You can take this one in just a minute," she said, indicating the
small lamp on the table. "Mr. Peabody's gone up to bed. You see
we don't use lights much in summer—we go to bed early 'cause all
hands have to be up at half-past four. And lamps brings the
mosquitoes." 

Betty sat down in a chair to wait for her lamp.  She was tired from
her journey and the exciting events of the day, but she had made
up her mind to write to her uncle that night, and her mind made
up, Betty was sure to stick to it. 

"Aren't you going to bed?" asked Betty, taking up the lamp when
Mrs. Peabody had finished. 

Mrs. Peabody made no move to leave the kitchen. 

"I like to sit out on the back stoop awhile" and get cooled off," she
said. "Sometimes I go to sleep leaning against the post, and one
night I didn't wake up till morning and Bob Henderson fell over
me running out for wood to start the fire. I like to sit quiet.
Sometimes I wish I had a dog to keep me company, but Mr.
Peabody don't like dogs." 

Betty went back to her room and began her letter. But all the while
she was writing the thought of that lonely woman "sitting quiet" on
the doorstep haunted her. What a life! And she had probably
looked forward to happiness with her husband and home as all
girls do. 

The mosquitoes were singing madly about the light before the first
five minutes had passed, but Betty stuck it out and sealed and
addressed her letter, putting it under her pillow for safe keeping.
Then she blew out the light and undressed in the dark. The bed
was the hardest thing she had ever lain upon, but, being a healthy
young person and very tired, she fell asleep as quickly as though
the mattress had been filled with softest down and only wakened
when a shaft of sunlight fell across her face. Some one was
whistling softly beneath her window. 

Seizing her dressing gown and flinging it across her shoulders,
Betty peered out. Bob Henderson, swinging a milk pail in either
hand, was back of the lilac bush again. 

"Say, it's quarter of six," he called anxiously, as he saw Betty's face
at the window. "Breakfast is at six, and if you don't hurry you'll be
cheated out of that. I'm going to Glenside right after, too." 

"I'll hurry," promised Betty. "Thank you for telling me. Have you
been up long?" 

"Hour and a half," came the nonchalant answer as Bob hurried on
to the barn. 

Betty sat down on the floor to put on her shoes and stockings. At
first she was angry to think that she should be made to rush like
this in order to have any breakfast when her uncle was paying her
board and in any other household she would have been accorded
some consideration as a guest. Then the humor of the situation
appealed to her and she laughed till the tears came. She, Betty
Gordon, who often had to be called three times in the morning,
was scrambling into her clothes at top speed in the hope of
securing something to eat. 

"It's too funny!" she gasped as she pulled a middy blouse on over
her head. "I'll bet the Peabody's never have to call any one twice to
come to the table; not if they're within hearing distance. They
come first call without coaxing." 

The breakfast table was set in the kitchen, and when Betty entered
Mrs. Peabody was putting small white saucers of oatmeal at each
place. Ordinarily Betty did not care for oatmeal in warm weather,
but this morning she was in no mood to quarrel with anything
eatable and she dispatched her portion almost as quickly as Bob
did his. Mr. Peabody grunted something which she took to mean
good-morning, and the two hired men simply nodded to her. After
the oatmeal came fried potatoes, bread without butter, ham and
coffee. There was no milk to drink and no eggs. 

"If I was going to stay," thought Betty to her- self, "I'd get some
stuff over in town and hide it in my room. I wonder if I couldn't
anyway. When I leave, Bob would have it." 

She fell to planning what she would buy and became as silent as
any of the other five at that queer table. 

CHAPTER IX  ONE ON BOB 

As soon as the men finished eating they rose silently and shuffled
out. Any diffidence Betty might have felt about facing any one at
the table after her dramatic exit of the night before was speedily
dispelled; no one paid the slightest attention to her. Mrs. Peabody
had risen and begun to wash the dishes at the sink before Betty had
finished. 

"I want to ride over to Glenside with Bob," said the girl a trifle
uncertainly as she pushed back her chair. "You don't care, do you,
Mrs. Peabody? And can I do any errands for you?" 

"No, I dunno as I want anything," said the woman dully. "You go
along and try to enjoy yourself. Bob's got to get back by eleven to
whitewash the pig house." 

"Come, drive over with us this morning," urged Betty kindly. "I'll
help you with the work when we get back. The air will do you
good. You look as though you had a headache." 

"Oh, I have a. headache 'most all the time," admitted Mrs.
Peabody, apparently not thinking it worth discussion. "And I
couldn't go to town, child, I haven't a straw hat. I don't know when
I've been to Glenside. Joe fusses so about the collection, I gave up
going to church two years ago." 

Betty heard the sound of wheels and ran out to join Bob, an ache in
her throat. 

"I think it's a burning shame!" she announced hotly to that youth,
as he put out a helpful hand to pull her up to the seat. "I pity Mrs.
Peabody from the bottom of my heart. Why can't she have a straw
hat? Doesn't she take care of the poultry and the butter and do all
the work in the house? If she can't have a hat, I'd like to know why
not!" 

"Regular pepper-pot, aren't you?" commented Bob admiringly.
"Gee, I wanted to laugh when you lit into old Peabody last night.
Didn't dare, though—he'd have up and pasted me one." 

It was a beautiful summer morning, and in spite of injustice and
unlovely human traits housed under the roof they had left, in spite
of the sight of the poor animal before them suffering pain at every
step, the two young people managed to enjoy themselves. Betty
had a hundred questions to ask about Bramble Farm, and Bob was
in the seventh heaven of delight to have this friendly, cheerful
companion to talk to instead of only his own thoughts for
company. 

"I've got the letter to Uncle Dick here in my pocket," Betty was
saying as they came in sight of the blacksmith's shop on the
outskirts of Glenside. "I suppose I'll have to be patient about
waiting for an answer. It may take a week. I don't know just where
he is, but I've written to the address he gave me, and marked it
'Please forward.' " 

The blacksmith came out and took the horse, Bob helping him
unharness and Betty improving the opportunity to see the inside of
a smithy. 

"I guess you'll want to look around town a bit?" suggested Bob,
coming up to her when the sorrel was tied in place awaiting his
turn to be shod. Two other horses were before him. "I'll wait here
for you." 

Betty looked at him in surprise. 

"Why, Bob Henderson!" she ejaculated, keeping her voice low so
that the two or three loungers about the door could not hear. "Are
you willing to let me go around by myself in a perfectly strange
town? I don't even know my way to the post-office. Don't you want
to go with me?" 

Bob was evidently embarrassed. 

"I—I—I don't look fit!" he blurted out. "The collar's torn off this
shirt, and I get only one clean pair of overalls a week—Monday
morning. I don't look good enough to go round with you." 

"Don't be silly!" said Betty severely. "You look all right for a work
day. Come on, or we won't be back by the time the shoe is on." 

Between the shop and the town there was a rather deserted strip of
land, very conspicuous as to concrete walks and building lots
marked off, but rather lacking in actual houses. Betty seized her
opportunity to do a little tactful financiering. She knew that Bob
had no money of his own—indeed it was doubtful if the lad had
ever handled even small change that he was not accountable for. 

"Uncle Dick gave me some money to spend," remarked Betty,
rather hurriedly, for she did not know how Bob was going to take
what she meant to say. "And before you show me the different
stores, I want you to take me to the drug store. I'm going to buy
Mrs. Peabody the largest bottle of violet toilet water I can find. It
will do her headache heaps of good. If I give you the money, you'll
buy it for me, won't you Bob?" 

"Sure I will," agreed the unsuspecting Bob, and he pocketed the
five dollar bill she gave him readily enough. 

The wily Betty hoped that the drug store would be modern, for she
had a plan tucked up her white sleeve. 

"Want to go to the drug store first or to the post-office?" asked
Bob. 

"Oh, the post-office!" Betty was suddenly anxious to know that her
letter was actually on the way. 

"Don't forget—get a big bottle," said Betty warningly, as she and
Bob entered the drug store. 

Her dancing dark eyes discovered what she had hoped for the
moment they were inside the screen door—a large soda fountain
with a white-jacketed clerk behind it. 

Bob led the way to the perfume counter, and though the clerk, who
evidently knew him, seemed surprised at his order, he very civilly
set out several bottles of toilet water for their inspection. Betty
chose a handsome large bottle, and when it was wrapped, and with
it some soap, for Betty did not fancy the thin wafer of yellow
kitchen soap she had found in her soapdish, Bob paid for the
package and received the change quite as though he were
accustomed to such proceedings. Indeed he stood straighter, and
Betty knew she was right in her conclusions that he had
sensitiveness and pride. 

The time had come to put her plan into action. 

"Oh, Bob!" She pulled his coat sleeve as they were passing the
fountain on their way out. "Let's have a sundae!" 

The clerk had heard her, and he came forward at once, pushing
toward them a printed card with the names of the drinks served.
Bob opened his mouth, then closed it. He sat down on one of the
high stools and Betty on another. 

"I'll have a chocolate marshmallow nut sundae," ordered Betty
composedly, having selected the most expensive and fanciful
concoction listed with the fervent hope that it would be plentiful
and good. 

"I'll have the same," mumbled Bob, just as Betty had trusted he
would. 

While the clerk was mixing the delectable dainty, Betty stole a
look at Bob. His mouth was. set grimly. Then he turned and caught
her eye. An unwilling grin flickered across his face and he
capitulated as Betty broke into a delighted giggle. 

"Well, I'll be jiggered!" admitted Bob, "you've certainly put it over
on me." 

They laughed and chattered over the sundaes, and. Betty, when
they were gone, would not listen to reason, but insisted they must
have another. She did not want a second one, but she knew Bob's
longing for sweets must have gone ungratified a long time, and she
was too young to worry about the ultimate effect on his surprised
organs of digestion. Bob was fairly caught, and could not object
without putting himself in an unfavorable light with the impressive
young clerk, so two more sundaes were ordered and disposed of.
Then Bob paid for them from the change in his pocket and he and
Betty found themselves on the sunny sidewalk. 

"That's the first sundae I ever had," confessed Bob shyly. "Of
course we had ice-cream at the poorhouse sometimes for a
treat—Christmas and sometimes Fourth of July. But I never ate a
sundae. Do you want your change back now?" 

"No, keep it," said Betty. "I want to go to a grocery store now. And
where do they keep mosquito netting?" 

"Same place—Liscom's general store," answered Bob. 

The general store was well-named. Betty, who had never been in a
place of this kind, was fascinated by the shelves and the wonderful
assortment of goods they contained. Everything, she privately
decided, from a pink chiffon veil to a keg of nails could be bought
here, and her deductions were very near the truth. 

"I can't stand being chewed by the mosquitoes another night," she
whispered to Bob. "So I'm going to get some netting and tack it on
the window casings. I'd buy a lamp if I was going to stay." 

After the netting was measured off, Betty, to Bob's astonishment,
began to buy groceries. She chose cans of sardines and tuna fish,
several packages of fancy crackers, a bottle or two of olives, a
pound of dried apricots, a box of dates and one or two other
articles. These were all wrapped together in a neat bundle. 

"Do they make sandwiches here?" asked Betty, watching a
machine shaving off a pink slice of cold boiled ham and a layer of
cheese and the storekeeper's assistant butter two slabs of bread
with sweet-looking butter at the order of a teamster who stood
waiting. 

"Sure we do, Miss," the proprietor assured her. "Nice, fresh
sandwiches made while you wait, and wrapped in waxed paper." 

"I'll have two ham and two cheese, please," responded Betty,
adding in an aside to Bob: "We can eat 'em going home." 

She was afraid that perhaps she had spent more money than she
had left from the five dollar bill. But Bob had enough to pay for
her purchases, it seemed, and they left the store with their bundles,
well pleased with the morning's work. 

CHAPTER X  ROAD COURTESY 

"WE'LL have to hurry," said Bob, quickening his steps, "if I'm to
get back at eleven. I hope Turner has the sorrel ready." 

"Hasn't the horse a name?" queried Betty curiously, running to
keep up with Bob. "I must go out and see the cows and things. Do
you like pigs, Bob?" 

The boy laughed a little at this confusion of ideas. 

"No, none of the horses are named," he answered, taking the
questions in order. "Peabody has three; but we just call 'em the
sorrel and the black and the bay. Nobody's got time to feed 'em
lumps of sugar and make pets out of them. Guess that's what
you've got in mind, Betty. Old Peabody would throw a fit if he saw
any one feeding sugar to a horse." 

"But the cows?" urged Betty. "Do they get enough to eat? Or do
they have to suffer to save money, like this poor horse we brought
over to be shod?" 

"Cows," announced Bob sententiously, "are different. "A cow
won't give as much milk if she's bothered, and Joe Peabody can see
a butter check as far as anybody else. So the stables are screened
and the cows are fed pretty well. Now, of course, they're out on
pasture. They're not blood stock, though—just mixed breeds. And I
hate pigs!" 

Betty was surprised at his vehemence, but she had no chance to
ask for an explanation, for by this time they had reached the
smithy, and the blacksmith led out the sorrel. 

After they were well started on their way toward the farm, she
ventured to ask Bob why he hated pigs. 

"If you had to take care of 'em, you'd know why," he answered
moodily. "I'd like to drown every one of 'em in the pails of slop I've
carried out to 'em. And whitewashing the pig house on a hot
day—whew! The pigs can go out in the orchard and root around,
while I have to clean up after 'em. Besides, if you lived on ham for
breakfast the year round, you'd hate the sight of a pig!" 

Betty laughed understandingly. 

"I know I should," she agreed. "Isn't it funny, I never thought so
much about eating in my life as I have since I've been here. It's on
my mind continually. I bought this canned stuff to keep up in my
room so if I don't want to eat what the Peabodys have every meal I
needn't. You can have some, too, Bob. Let's eat these sandwiches
now—I'm hungry, aren't you? Why didn't you tell me you were tired
of ham and I would have bought something else?" 

But Bob was far from despising well-cooked cold, boiled ham, and
he thoroughly enjoyed his share of the sandwiches. While eating
he glanced once or twice uncertainly at Betty, wishing he could
find the courage to tell her how glad he was that she had come to
Bramble Farm. Bob's life had had very few pleasant events in it so
far. 

"Don't you think it was funny that Mr. Pea- body let me come?"
asked Betty presently, following her own train of thought. "If he's
so close, I should think he'd hate to have any one come to see his
wife." 

"He's doing it for the check your uncle sent," retorted Bob
shrewdly. "Didn't you know your board was paid for two weeks in
advance? That's why Peabody isn't making a fuss about your going;
he figures he'll be in that much. Hello, what's this?" 

"This" was a buggy drawn up at one side of the road, the fat, white
horse lazily cropping grass, while two slight feminine figures stood
helplessly by. 

Bob was going to drive past, but Betty put out her hand and jerked
the sorrel to a halt. 

"Ask 'em what the matter is," she commanded. "They've lost a
wheel," said Bob in a low tone, his practiced eye having detected
at once that one of the rear wheels was lying on the grass. "We
can't stop, Betty; we're late now, and Joe Pea- body's in a raging
temper anyway this morning." 

"Why, Bob Henderson, how you do talk!" Betty's dark eyes began
to shoot fire. "Just because you have to live with the meanest man
in the world is no excuse for you to grow like him! If you drive on
and don't try to help these women, I'll never speak to you
again—never!" 

Bob looked shamefaced. His first impulse had been to stop and
offer help, but he had had first-hand experience with the Peabody
temper and had endured more than one beating for slight neglect
of iron-clad orders. When he still hesitated, Betty spoke scornfully. 

"They're old ladies—so don't bother," she said bitingly. "Uncle Dick
says no one should ever leave any one in trouble on the road, but I
suppose he meant men who could whack you over the head if you
refused to assist them. Why don't you drive on, Bob?" 

"You hush up!" Bob, stung into action, closed his mouth grimly
and handed over the reins to his tormentor. "It's a half hour's job to
put that wheel on, but I suppose there's no way out of it, so here
goes." 

The two women were, as Betty had said, old ladies; that is, each
had very white hair. And, although the day was warm, they were so
muffled up in veils and shawls and gloves that the boy and the girl
marveled how they could see to drive. 

"The wheel just came off without warning," said the taller of the
two, in a high, sweet voice, as Bob asked to be allowed to help
them. "Sister and I were so frightened! It might have been serious,
you know, but Phyllis is such a good horse! She never even
attempted to run." 

Bob with difficulty repressed a grin. Looking at the fat sides of
Phyllis he would have said that physical handicaps, rather than an
inherent sweetness of disposition, kept Phyllis where she be'
longed between the shafts. 

"You've lost a nut," announced the boy, after a brief examination. 

"Dear, dear!" fluttered both ladies. "Isn't that unfortunate! "You
haven't a—a—nut with you, Mr. —?" 

"I'm Bob Henderson," said the lad courteously. "I'll look around
here in the dust a bit and maybe the nut will turn up. Why don't
you sit down in the shade and rest awhile?" 

The two ladies accepted his suggestion gratefully. They retired to a
crooked old apple tree growing on the bank further down the road,
evincing no desire to make the acquaintance of Betty, who sat
quietly in the wagon holding the reins. 

"I suppose they think we're backwoods country folks," thought
Betty, the blood coming into her face. "Don't know that I blame
them, seeing that this wagon is patched and tied together in a
hundred places and the horse looks like a shadow of a skeleton." 

Bob continued to search in the dust of the road painstakingly.   The
two women clearly had shifted their trouble to him, and apparently
had no further interest in the outcome. Betty longed to offer to
help him, but the severity of his pro- file, as she glimpsed it now
and then, deterred her. 

"I wish I could stop before I say so much," mourned the girl to
herself. "I ought to know that Bob can't help being afraid of Mr.
Peabody. If he had control over me, I'd probably act just as his
wife and Bob do. When you can get away from an ogre, it's easy
enough to say you're not afraid of him. Doesn't Bob dominate the
situation, as Mrs. Arnold used to say!" 

Bob had found the nut, and was now fitting the wheel into place,
working with a quickness and skill that fascinated Betty. She
timidly called to him and asked if she should not come and hold
the axle, but he refused her offer curtly. In a very few minutes the
wheel was screwed on and the two ladies at liberty to resume their
journey. 

They were insistent that Bob accept pay for his help, but the boy
declined, politely but resolutely, and seemingly at no loss for
diplomatic words and phrases. 

"Were you born in the poorhouse, Bob?" Betty asked curiously,
wondering where the lad had developed his ability to meet people
on their own ground. The volubly thankful ladies had driven on,
and the sorrel was now trotting briskly toward Bramble Farm. 

"Yes, I was," said Bob shortly.  "But my mother wasn't, nor my
father. I've got a box buried in the garden that's mine, though the
clothes on my back belong to old Peabody. And if I'm like Joe
Peabody in other things, perhaps I'll learn to make money and save
it. My father couldn't, or I wouldn't have been born in an
almshouse!" 

"Oh, Bob!" Betty cried miserably, "I didn't mean you were like Mr.
Peabody—you know I didn't. I'm so sorry! I always say things I don't
mean when I'm mad. Uncle Dick told me to go out and chop wood
when I get furious, and not talk. I am so sorry!" 

"We've got a wood pile," grinned Bob. "I'll show you where it is.
The rest of it's all right, Betty. I'd probably have stayed awake all
night if I'd driven by those women. Only I suppose Peabody will be
in a towering rage. It must be noon." 

If Betty was not afraid of Mr. Peabody, it must be confessed that
she looked forward with no more pleasure than Bob to meeting
him. Still she was not prepared for the cold fury with which he
greeted them when they drove into the yard. 

"Just as I figured," he said heavily. "Here 'tis noon, and that boy
hasn't done a stroke of work since breakfast. Gallivanting all over
town, I'll be bound.  Going to be like his shiftless, worthless father
and mother—a charge on the township all his days. You take that
pail of whitewash and don't let me see you again till you get the
pig house done, you miserable, sneaking poorhouse rat! You'll go
without dinner to pay for wasting my time like this! Clear out,
now." 

"How dare you!" Betty's voice was shaking, but she stood up in the
wagon and looked down at Mr. Peabody bravely. "How dare you
taunt a boy with what he isn't responsible for? It isn't his fault that
he was born in the poorhouse, nor his fault that we're late. I made
him stop and help put a buggy wheel on. Oh, how can you be so
mean, and close and hateful?" 

Betty's eyes overflowed as she gathered up her bundles and jumped
to the ground. Mrs. Peabody, standing in the doorway, was a silent
witness to her outburst, and the two hired men, who had come up
to the house for dinner, were watching curiously. Bob had
disappeared with the bucket of whitewash. No one would say
anything, thought Betty despairingly, if a murder were committed
in this awful place. 

"Been spending your money?" sneered Mr. Peabody, eyeing the
bundles with disfavor. "Never earned a cent in your life, I'll be
bound, yet you'll fling what isn't yours right and left. Let me give
you a word of advice, young lady; as long as you're in my house
you hold your tongue if you don't want to find yourself in your
room on a diet of bread and water. Under- stand?" 

Betty Gordon fled upstairs, her one thought to reach the haven of
her bed. Anger and humiliation and a sense of having lowered
herself to the Peabody level by quarreling when in a bad temper
swept over her in a wave. She buried her head in the hard little
pillow.  
 
CHAPTER XI  A KEEN DISAPPOINTMENT 

"I'M just as bad as he is, every bit," sobbed poor little Betty.
"Uncle Dick would say so. I'm in his house, much as I hate it, and I
hadn't any right to call him names—only he is so hateful ! Oh, dear,
I wonder if I shall ever get away from here!" 

She cried herself into a headache, and had no heart to open the
parcel of groceries or to go down to ask Mrs. Peabody for
something to eat, though indeed the girl knew she stood small
chance of securing as much as a cracker after the dinner hour. 

Suddenly some one put a soothing hand on her hot forehead, and,
opening her swollen eyes, Betty saw Mrs. Peabody standing beside
the bed. "You poor lamb!" said the woman compassionately. "You
mustn't go on like this, dear. You'll make yourself sick. I'm going
to close the blinds and shut out the sun; then I'll get a cold cloth for
your head. You'd feel better if you had something to eat, though.
You mustn't go without your meals, child." 

"I've got some crackers and bouillon cubes," replied Betty wearily.
"I suppose Mr. Peabody wouldn't mind if I used a little hot water
from the tea kettle?" 

She bit her tongue with vexation at the sarcasm, but Mrs. Peabody
apparently saw no implication. 

"The kitchen fire's gone out, but the kettle's still hot," she
answered. "I'll step down and get you a cup. I have just ninety cobs
to get supper on, or I'd build up a fresh fire for you. Joe counts the
cobs; he wants they should last till the first of July." 

"Oh, how do you stand it?" burst from Betty. "I should think you'd
go crazy. Don't you ever want to scream?" 

Mrs. Peabody stopped in the doorway. "I used to care," she
admitted apathetically. "Not any more. You can get used to
anything. Besides, it's no use, Betty; you'll find that out. Flinging
yourself against a stone wall only bruises you—the wall doesn't
even feel you trying." 

"Bring up two cups," called Betty, as Mrs. Peabody started down
stairs. 

"I'll bet she flung herself against the stone wall till all the spirit and
life was crushed out of her," mused the girl, lying flat on her back,
her eyes fixed on the fly-specked ceiling. "Poor soul, it must be
awful to have to give up even trying." 

Mrs. Peabody came back with two cracked china cups and saucers,
and a tea kettle half full of passably hot water. Betty forgot her
throbbing head as she hustled about, spreading white paper
napkins on the bed—there was no table and only one chair in the
room—and arranging her crackers and a package of saltines which
she deftly spread with potted ham. 

"We'll have a make-believe party," she declared tactfully, dropping
a couple of soup cubes in each cup and adding the hot water. "I'm
sure you're hungry; you jump up so much at the table, you don't
half eat your meals." 

Mrs. Peabody raised her eyes—faded eyes but still honest. 

"I've no more pride left," she said quietly. "Goodness!" exclaimed
Betty, "I bought you something this morning, and haven't given it
to you." 

Mrs. Peabody was as pleased as a child with the pretty bottle of
toilet water, and Betty extracted a promise from her that she would
use it for her headaches, and not "save" it. 

"If I was going to stay," thought Betty, stowing her packages of
goodies under the bed as the most convenient place presenting
itself, "I might be able to make things a little pleasanter for Mrs.
Peabody. I do wonder when Uncle Dick will write." 

She had allowed four days as the shortest time in which her uncle
could possibly get an answer to her, so she was agreeably delighted
when, on going out to the mailbox at the head of the lane the third
morning, she found a letter addressed to her and postmarked
"Philadelphia." There was no other mail in the box. The Peabodys
did not even subscribe for a weekly paper. 

"Bob!" shouted Betty, hurdling a fence and bearing down upon that
youth as he hoed corn in a near-by field. "Bob, here's a letter from
Uncle Dick! He's answered so soon, I'm sure he says I can come to
him. Won't that be great?" 

Bob nodded grimly and went on with his work while Betty eagerly
tore open her envelope. After she had read the first few lines the
brightness went out of her face) and when she looked up at Bob
she was crying. 

"What's the matter, is he sick?" asked the boy in alarm. 

"He hasn't had my letter at all!" wept Betty. "He never got it! This
was written the same day I wrote him, and he says he's going out to
the oil wells and won't be in touch with civilization for some
weeks to come. His lawyer in Philadelphia is to hold his mail, and
send the checks for my board. And he thinks I'm having a good
time with his old friend Agatha and encloses a check for ten
dollars for me to spend. 

Oh, Bob!" and the unhappy Betty flung her arms around the neck
of the astonished Bob and cried as though her heart would break. 

"There, there!" Bob patted her awkwardly, in his excitement
hitting her with the hoe handle, but neither of them knew that.
"There, Betty, maybe things won't be as bad as you think. You can
go to Glenside and get books from the library —they've got a right
nice little library. It would be nice if you had a bicycle or
something to go on, but you haven't." 

"Uncle's sending me a riding habit," said Betty, wiping her eyes.
"And a whole bundle of books and a parcel of magazines. He says
he never yet saw a farm with enough reading material on the parlor
table. I will be glad to have something to read." 

"Sure. And Sundays I can borrow a magazine," and Bob's eyes
shone with anticipated enjoyment. "Sunday's the one day I have
any time to myself and there's never much to do." 

Betty slipped the letter into her blouse pocket. She was bitterly
disappointed to think that she must stay at Bramble Farm, and she
did not relish the idea of having to confess to the Peabodys that her
plans for leaving them had been rather premature. 

"I say," Bob looked up from his hoeing, the shrewd light in his
eyes that made him appear older than his thirteen years. "I say,
Betty, it you're wise, you won't say anything about this letter up at
the house. Old Peabody doesn't know you've written to your uncle,
and he'll think you changed your mind. I half believe he thinks you
were only speaking in a fit of temper, anyway. If you tell him you
can't reach your uncle by letter, and have to stay here for the next
few weeks whether you will or no, he'll think he has you right
where he wants you. He can't help taking advantage of every one." 

"Doesn't any one ever come to call?" Betty asked a day or two
later, following Bob out to the pasture to help him salt the sheep. 

It was a Sunday morning, and even Mr. Peabody so far respected
the Sabbath that he exacted only half as much as usual from his
help. The milking, of course, had to be done, and the stock fed, but
that accomplished, after breakfast, Wapley and Lieson, the hired
men, had set off to walk to Glenside to spend their week's wages as
they saw fit. They had long ago, after wordy battles, learned the
futility of trying to borrow a horse from Mr. Peabody. 

Bob had finished his usual chores, and after salting the sheep
would be practically free for the day. He and Betty had planned to
take their books out into the orchard and enjoy the peaceful
sunniness of the lovely June weather. 

"Come to call?" repeated Bob, letting down the bars of the rocky
pasture. "What would they come to call for? No one would be civil
to 'em, and Mrs. Peabody runs when she sees any one coming. She
hasn't got a decent dress; so I don't blame her much. Here, you sit
down and I'll call them." 

Betty sat down on a flat rock and Bob spread out his salt on
another. The sheep knew his voice and came slowly toward him. 

"Come on now, Betty, and let's have a whack at that magazine, the
one about out West," said Bob at last. 

The promised package of books and magazines had arrived, and
Betty had generously placed them at the disposal of the household.
Wapley and Lieson had displayed a pathetic eagerness for
"pictures," and sat up after supper as long as the light lasted,
turning over the illustrated pages. Betty doubted if they could read. 

CHAPTER XII  BETTY DEFENDS HERSELF 

APPARENTLY Mr. Peabody had never taken Betty's threat to ask
her uncle to take her away seriously, and her presence at the farm
soon came to be an accepted fact. Conditions did not improve, but
Betty developed a sturdy, wholesome philosophy that helped her to
make the best of everything. Uncle Dick wrote seldom, but
packages from Philadelphia continued to come at intervals, and
always proved to be practical and needful. 

"Though as to that, he couldn't have the lawyer send me anything
that wouldn't be useful," said Betty to herself. "I never saw a place
where there was so much <I> nothing </I> as here at Bramble
Farm." 

One morning when the pouring rain kept her indoors, Betty was
exploring the little used parlor.  Mrs. Peabody seldom entered the
room save to clean it and close it up, and Betty opened a corner of
the blind with something like trepidation. A large shotgun over the
mantel attracted her attention at once. 

"Don't touch that thing—it's always kept loaded," said the voice of
Lieson at the door. 

Betty shivered and drew away from the shelf. Lieson showed his
tobacco-stained teeth in a friendly grin. 

"I was up attic getting my rubber boots," he explained, "and I saw
the mail wagon stop at the box. Do you want I should go down and
get the mail?" 

"Oh, would you?" Betty's tone was eager. "Perhaps there is a letter
from my uncle. That would be so kind of you, Mr. Lieson, because
otherwise I may have to wait till it stops raining." 

"I'll go," said Lieson awkwardly, and he went slumping down the
hall. 

Wapley and Lieson were rough and untidy, but Betty found herself
liking them better and feeling sorry for them as time went on. They
worked hard and were never thanked and had very little pleasure
after their day's work was over. Several times now they had done
little kindnesses for Betty, and she had tried to show that she
appreciated their efforts. 

Lieson came back from the mail box carrying a square package,
but no letter. Though Mr. Peabody was presumably waiting in the
barn for him and fuming at his delay, the man showed such a naive
interest in the parcel that Betty could not resist asking him to wait
while she opened it. 

"Why, it's a camera!" she exclaimed delightedly, as she took out
the square box. "I'll take your picture, Mr. Lieson, as soon as the
sun comes out, to pay you for walking through all this rain to get
the mail for me." 

"Say, would you?" Lieson showed more animation than Betty had
ever noticed in him. "Honest? I got a lady friend, and she's always
at me to send her my picture. She sure would admire to have one
of me." 

"All right, she hasn't long to wait," promised Betty gaily. "Here are
two rolls of film, and luckily I know how to operate a camera. Mr.
Arnold had a good one and he taught me. The first sunny day,
remember, Mr. Lieson." 

The rain continued all that day, and at night when Betty went up to
bed she heard it pattering on the tin roof of the porch which was
under her window. 

Betty had managed to make her room more habitable, and,
relieved of any fear of embarrassing her hostess, had tacked
netting at the two windows and bought herself a lamp with a good
burner. She scrupulously paid Mr. Peabody for the oil she used,
and while he showed plainly that he considered burning a light at
night in summer a wicked extravagance) he did not interfere. 

"Now let me see," mused Betty. "Shall I answer Mrs. Arnold's last
letter or go to bed? I guess I'll go to bed. I'll have all day to write
letters to-morrow." 

She was brushing her hair when a noise in the next room startled
her. She knew that it was not occupied, for, besides herself, the
Peabodys were the only ones who slept on the second floor. Bob
Henderson and the hired men were housed in the attic. The
Peabodys' bedroom was further down the hall, on the other side of
the house. 

"Pshaw!" Betty put her brush back on the table and gave her head a
shake. "I mustn't get nervous. We're too far out in the country for
burglars; and, besides, what in the world would they come here
after?" 

Mr. Peabody differed from the majority of his neighbors in that he
banked most of his funds. Some said it was because, if he had been
in the habit of keeping money in the house, his help would have
murdered him cheerfully and taken the cash as a reward. Be that as
it may, it was well known that Joseph Peabody seldom had actual
money in his pocket or in his tin strong box, and now Betty was
glad to recall this. 

She had braided her hair and put out the light and was just slipping
into bed when she heard the noise again. This time it sounded
against the wall. Betty stealthily crept out of bed and ran to her
door. There was no door key, but she shot the bolt. 

"That's some protection," she murmured, hopping into bed again.
"If there are burglars in the house, I suppose I've locked 'em out to
scare Mr. and Mrs. Peabody to death. But at any rate they have
each other, and I'm all alone." 

Closing her eyes tight, Betty began to say her prayers, but she fell
asleep before she had finished. 

She woke in the dark to hear a noise directly under her bed! 

She sat up, her eyes trying to pierce the darkness, wondering why
she had not taken the precaution of looking under the bed before
she locked herself into a room with a burglar. 

"If I look now and see his legs, I'll faint away, I know I shall," she
thought, her teeth chattering, though the night was warm. "I wish
to goodness Uncle Dick had sent me a revolver." 

That reminded her of the shotgun downstairs. With Betty to think
was to act, and she sprang noiselessly out of bed and ran to the
door. Thank goodness, the bolt slipped without squeaking.
Downstairs ran Betty and lifted the heavy shotgun from its place
over the mantel. She was no longer afraid, and her eyes sparkled
with excitement. She was having a grand adventure. She had shot a
gun a few times under Mr. Arnold's instructions and careful
supervision when he was teaching his boys how to handle one, and
she thought she knew all about it. 

She gained her room, breathless, for the gun was heavy. At the
threshold she stopped a moment to listen. Yes, there was the noise
again. The burglar was unaware of her flight. 

Unaware herself of the absurdity of her deductions, Betty raised
the heavy gun and pointed it toward the bed. As well as she could
tell, she was aiming under the bed. She shut her eyes tight and
fired. 

The gun kicked unmercifully, and Betty ejaculated a loud "Ow!"
which was lost in the babble of sound that immediately followed
the shot. There was the sound of breaking glass under the bed, a
shrill scream from Mrs. Peabody, and the thunderous bellow of
Mr. Peabody demanding: "What in Sam Hill are those varmints up
to now?" Evidently he attributed the racket to Wapley and Lieson,
who had been known to come home late from Glenside. 

In a few minutes they were all gathered at  Betty's door, Bob
open-mouthed and speechless, the two men sleepily curious, the
Peabodys loudly demanding to know what the matter was. 

"Are you hurt, Betty?" asked Mrs. Peabody anxiously. "Where did
you get the gun, dear? Did something frighten you?" 

"It's a burglar!" declared Betty. "I heard him under the bed! But I
got him, I know I did!" 

"Light the lamp and look under the bed, Bob," commanded Mr.
Peabody harshly. "I don't believe this burglar stuff, but the girl's
shot off a good charge of buckshot, no doubt of that. Find out what
she hit.", 

Bob lit the lamp and stooped down to look. Then his lips twitched. 

"Rat!" he announced briefly. "A big one." 

"Haul him out," directed Lieson. "Let's have a look at him." 

Betty had shrunk inside the doorway when the lamp was lit,
conscious of her attire, and now she managed to reach her dressing
gown and fling it around her. 

"He's in too many pieces," said Bob doubtfully. "Guess we'll have
to get a dustpan and brush." 

Mr. Peabody and the two men went grumbling back to bed,
Peabody taking the gun for safe-keeping, but Mrs. Peabody sent
Bob down to the kitchen for the articles he mentioned, declaring
that Betty should not have to finish the night in a room with a dead
rat. 

"If there was another bed made up, I'd move you into it," she said.
"But I haven't an extra place ready." 

Betty had pinned up her hair and put on her slippers before Bob
came back, and had put her best pink crepe dressing gown around
Mrs. Peabody, who presented an incongruous vision so attired.
Bob looked at Betty in admiration. With her tumbled dark hair and
pink cheeks and blue gown and slippers, the boy thought her the
prettiest thing he had ever seen. 

"I didn't want to tell you—don't look," he whispered, getting down
on his knees to sweep out the remains of the slaughtered rat, "but
the buckshot hit two olive bottles, and there's some mess here
under your bed. I guess the rat was after the crackers." 

Bob carried down the dead rat and mopped up the brine from the
olives and threw out the debris, making several trips downstairs
without murmur. Finally it was all cleaned up, and they could go
back to their rooms and finish the remainder of the night in
probable peace. 

"If you hear a noise"—Bob could not resist this parting shot—"run
down and grab the dinner bell. We'll hear it just as quick, and you
might shoot the potted ham full of bullets next time." 

Betty did not sleep well, and once she woke, sure that she had
heard loud talking and shouts. She thought the noise came from
the attic. 

"Lieson had the nightmare after your shindy," announced Bob at
the breakfast table. "He suddenly began shouting and got me by the
throat, declaring that if I didn't pay him every cent I owed him he'd
kill me. Wapley had to come and pull him away, or I don't know
but he would have choked the breath out of me." 

"I had a bad dream," said Lieson sullenly. 

The rain was still coming down and all the good-nature of the day
before had left Lieson. He refused to answer a remark of Mr.
Peabody's, and was evidently in a bad humor. 

"He and the old man had a run in before breakfast," whispered
Bob, pulling on his boots preparatory to carrying out food to the
pigs. Betty stood at the window and they could talk without being
overheard.  "It was something about money. Well, Betty, are you
going gunning to-day?" 

"You needn't tease me," replied Betty, laughing. "I feel foolish
enough, without being reminded of last night. I think I'll go
upstairs and sew on buttons as a penance. There's nothing I hate to
do worse." 

"Do it well then," suggested the irrepressible Bob, slamming the
door just in time to avoid the glass of water Betty tossed after him. 

CHAPTER XIII  FOLLOWING THE PRESCRIPTION 

THE sound of some one chopping wood caught the alert ear of
Bob Henderson as he came whistling through the yard on his way
to the tool house. Some peculiar quality in the strokes seemed to
suggest something to him, and he turned aside and made for the
woodshed. 

"For the love of Mike! Betty Gordon, what do you call it you're
doing now?" he inquired, standing in the frame of the woodshed, at
a respectful distance from the energetic figure by the wood block. 

"Chopping wood!" snapped Betty, hacking a dry rail viciously.
"Did you think I was cutting out paper dolls?" 

"My dear child, that isn't the way to chop wood," insisted Bob
paternally. "Here, let me show you. You'll ruin the axe, to say
nothing of chopping off your own right ear." 

Betty brought the axe down on the rail with unnecessary violence. 

"Let me alone," she said ominously.  "I'm mad! This is Uncle
Dick's prescription, but I can't see that it works. The more I chop,
the madder I get!" 

Bob grinned, and then as a shout of "You, Bob!" sounded from
outside, his expression changed. 

"Wapley is waiting for nails to fix the fence with," he said
hurriedly. "I'll have to hurry. But come on down to the cornfield,
can't you, Betty? We can talk there." 

Bob ran off, and Betty regarded the axe resentfully. 

"Seems to me he's hoed enough corn to reach round the earth," she
said aloud. "I wonder if Bob ever gets mad? Well, I guess I will go
down and talk to him, though I did mean to weed the garden for
Mrs. Peabody. I can do that this afternoon." 

In spite of the absence of fresh eggs and milk from her diet, the
weeks at Bramble Farm had benefited Betty. She was deeply
tanned from days spent in the sun, and while perceptibly thinner, a
close observer would have known that she was hardy and strong.
She was growing taller, too. 

"Mr. Peabody is so mean!" she scolded, dropping down under a
scrubby wild cherry tree in the field where Bob was already hard at
work hoeing corn, having delivered the nails to Wapley. "You
know this is the first fair day we've had since those three rainy
ones, and I promised Mr. Lieson I'd take his picture. He wants it
for his girl. And Mr. Peabody wouldn't let him go upstairs and put
on his best clothes. Said it was his time and that foolishness could
wait till after supper. You know I can't take a snapshot after
supper!" 

Bob hoed a few minutes in silence. 

"Try a little diplomacy, Betty," he finally advised. "Sunday is the
time to take Lieson in his glad rags. He looks fierce all dressed up,
I think; it probably will break off the match if his girl is marrying
him for his beauty. But Lieson the way he is now—in that soft shirt
and without his hat —isn't half bad.  He's got a kind of wistful,
gentle face, for all he can jaw so terribly; have you noticed it? Go
down in the potato field and take his picture while he's working
and tell him you'll take him dressed up Sunday and he can have
both pictures.  He'll be so pleased, he'll offer to let you hold a pig." 

Betty made a little face. Lieson had already done just that.
Thinking that Betty, who made such a fuss over the baby lambs,
would be equally delighted with the little pigs, Lieson had told her
to shut her eyes one day and hold out her hands; into them he had
dropped a squirming, slippery, squealing baby pig and Bob had
always declared he could not tell which made the most noise—"
Betty when she opened her eyes, or the pig when she dropped him.
Lieson had been much disappointed. 

"I'll go and get the camera now," said Betty, jumping up, all traces
of temper vanished. "I'll put in the film that holds a dozen and just
go round taking everything. That will be fun!" 

She went running up the field and Bob's eyes followed her
wistfully. 

"She's a good kid," he said to himself. "Trouble is, she's never been
up against it before and she doesn't always know how to take it. It
does make her so mad to see old Peabody walk all over every one;
but there's no sense in letting her buck against him when you can
turn her thoughts in another direction. Gee, I'm sick of this blamed
corn!" 

Bob went up and down the endless rows, and Betty skipped about,
"snapping" views of Bramble Farm to her heart's content. Lieson
was delighted to learn that he might have two pictures of himself,
and though it seemed to him a waste of time to be photographed in
his work clothes, still he admitted that even an "ordinary" picture
was preferable to none. 

"My lady friend," he announced proudly, as Betty clicked her bulb,
"she like me anyway." 

Wapley, while without the excuse of a "lady friend,"  was
nevertheless almost: childishly pleased to pose for his photograph,
and him, too, Betty promised to take again on Sunday. Mrs.
Peabody, weeding in the large vegetable garden that was her
regular care, alone refused to be taken. 

"Oh, no!" she shrank down among the cabbages and pulled her
hideous sunbonnet further over her eyes when Betty pressed her to
reconsider her refusal. "Child, don't ask me. When I look at the
picture of me taken in my wedding dress and then see myself in
the mirror mornings, I wonder if I'm the same person. I wouldn't
have my picture taken for one hundred dollars!" 

Betty used up one roll of films that morning, but she decided to
save the other roll for Sun" day, as she was not sure she could get
another ire Glenside. She determined to take her pictures over that
afternoon and have them developed, for she was as eager to see the
results as Lieson and Wapley. Bob, too, owned up to a desire to see
how he "turned out." 

"It's a pretty hot day," ventured Mrs. Peabody uncertainly, when
Betty, at the dinner table, announced her intention of walking to
Glenside that afternoon. "Maybe, dearie, if you wait till after
supper, some one will be driving over." 

"Horses ain't going a step off this farm this week," said Mr.
Peabody impressively. "They're working without shoes, as anybody
with any interest in the place would know. If some folks haven't
any more to do than gad around spending good money, it's none of
my affair; but I don't aim to run a stage between here and Glenside
for their convenience." 

Dinner was finished in silence after this speech, and immediately
after she had helped Mrs. Pea- body with the dishes, Betty went up
to her room to change her dress. She did not mind the walk; indeed
she had taken it several times before, and knew that one side of the
road would be comparatively shady all the way. 

Betty took an inexplicable whim to put on her prettiest dress, a
delicate pink linen with white collars and cuffs that Mrs. Arnold
had taught her to embroider herself in French knots. She untied the
black velvet ribbon she usually wore on her broad-brimmed hat
and substituted a sash of pink mull. 

"You look too nice!" exclaimed Mrs. Peabody when the girl came
downstairs. "Don't you think you should take an umbrella, though?
Those big white clouds mean a thunder storm." 

Betty laughingly declined the umbrella, and, promising Mrs.
Peabody "something pretty," started off on her walk. Poor Mrs.
Peabody, though Betty was too inexperienced to realize it, was
beginning, very slowly it is true, but still beginning, to break under
the long strain of hard work and unhappiness. Betty only knew that
she was pitifully pleased with the smallest gift from the town
stores. 

"If I don't see a girl of my own age to speak to pretty soon,"
declared Betty to herself, walking swiftly up the lane, "I don't
know what I shall do! Bob is nice, but, goodness! he isn't interested
in lots of things I like. Crocheting, for instance. I never was crazy
about fancy work, but now I'm kind of hungry for a crochet
needle." 

Half way to Glenside a farmer overtook her, and after the pleasant
country fashion offered her a "lift." Betty accepted gladly. He
lived, as she discovered after a few minutes' conversation, on the
farm next to the Peabodys, and he had heard about her and knew
who she was. 

"When you get time," he said kindly, when she told him she was
going to Glenside, "walk through the town and out toward Linden.
There's quite a nursery out that way, and you'd like to see the
flowers. Folks come from the city to buy their plants there." 

At the nearest crossroads to Glenside he turned, and Betty got out,
thanking him heartily for the ride. It was a matter of only a few
moments now to reach Glenside, and she found herself in the town
much sooner than she had counted on. So when the drug-store
clerk said he would have her pictures developed and printed within
an hour if she could wait, Betty determined to wait instead of
having them mailed to her. She had a sundae and bought some
chocolates for Mrs. Peabody, and then remembered the farmer's
remark about the nursery. 

"How far is it to the nursery they talk about?" she said to the
woman clerk who had weighed out the candy. 

"Baxter's? Oh, not more than three-quarters of a mile," was the
answer. "You go right up Main Street as far as the sidewalk goes.
When it stops, keep right on, and pretty soon you'll see a big sign
of a watering-pot; that's it." 

Betty followed these directions implicitly, and she had reached the
end of the town sidewalk when she heard the distant mutter of
thunder. 

"I guess I can reach the nursery and be looking at the flowers while
it storms," she said to herself. 

Betty had no more fear of thunderstorms than of a tame cat, but
she mightily disliked the idea of getting her hat wet.  So she
hurried conscientiously. 

The sun went under a heavy cloud, and a violent crash of thunder
directly overhead stimulated her into a run. There was not a house
in sight, and Betty began to wish she had turned and gone back to
the town. At least she could have found shelter in a shop. 

Splash! A huge drop of rain flattened in the dust of the road. The
tall trees on either side began to sway in the slowly rising wind. 

"I'll bet it will be a big storm, and I'll be soaked!" gasped Betty.
"Where is that plaguey nursery!" 

She began to run, and the drops came faster and faster. Then,
without warning, the long line of swaying trees stopped, and a tidy
white picket fence began on the side of the road nearest Betty.
Back of the pickets was a well-kept green lawn; and set in the
center of a circle of glorious elm trees was a comfortable white
house with green blinds and a wide porch. A woman and two girls
were hastily taking in a swing and a quantity of sofa pillows to
protect them from the storm. 

"Come in, quick!" called the woman, as Betty came in sight. 
"Hurry, before you're soaked. Just lift the latch and the gate swings
in." 

"Just lift the latch." Betty thought she had never heard a more
cordial or welcome invitation. 

CHAPTER XIV WINNING NEW FRIENDS 

BETTY opened the gate and ran up the path. The younger girl,
who seemed about her own age, put out a friendly hand and
touched her sleeve. 

"Not wet a bit, Mother!" she announced triumphantly. "And I don't
believe her hat's spotted, either!" 

A jagged streak of lightning and another thundering crash sent
them all scurrying indoors. The lady led the way into a pleasant
room where an open piano, books, and much gay cretonne-covered
wicker furniture gave an atmosphere at once homelike and
modern. Betty had craved the sight of such a room since leaving
Pineville and her friends. 

"Pull down the shades, Norma; and, Alice, light the lamp,"
directed the mother of the two girls. 

The younger girl drew the shades and Alice, who was evidently
some years older than her sister, lighted the pretty wicker lamp on
the center table. 

"I'm so glad you reached our house before the storm fairly broke,"
said their mother, smiling at Betty. "In another second you would
have been drenched, and there isn't a house between here and
Baxter's nursery." 

Betty explained that she had been on her way to the nursery, and
thinking that her kind hostess should know her guest's name, gave
it, and said that she was staying at Bramble Farm. 

"Oh, yes, we've heard of you," said the lady, in some surprise. "I
am Mrs. Guerin, and my husband, Dr. Guerin, learns all the news,
you know, on his rounds among his patients. Mrs. Keppler, I
believe, was the one who told him there was a girl visiting the
Peabodys." 

Betty wondered rather uncomfortably what had been said about
her and whether she was regarded with pity because of the
conditions endured by any one who had the misfortune to be a
member of the Peabody household.  The Kepplers, she knew, were
their nearest neighbors. 

Norma and Alice each took a seat on the arms of their mother's
chair, and regarded the guest curiously, but kindly. 

"Do you like the country?" asked the younger girl, feeling that
something in the way of conversation was expected of her. Betty
replied in the affirmative, adding that, aside from lonesomeness
now and then, she had enjoyed the outdoor life immensely. 

"But what do you do all day long?" persisted Norma. "The
Peabodys are so queer!" 

"Norma!" reproved her mother and Alice in one breath. 

"Well they are!" muttered Norma.  "Miss Gordon isn't a relation of
theirs, is she? So why do I have to be polite?" 

"I'm only twelve," said Betty, embarrassed by the "Miss Gordon,"
and puzzled to know how to avoid a discussion of the Peabodys.
"No one ever calls me 'Miss.' My Uncle Dick went to school with
Mrs. Peabody, and he thought it would be pleasant for me to board
with them this summer." 

"When you get lonesome for girls, come over and see us,"
suggested Mrs. Guerin cordially. "Come whenever you are in
Glenside, anyway. Norma hasn't many friends of her own age in
town, and she'll probably talk you deaf, dumb and blind." 

"I don't get over very often," said Betty, thinking how fortunate
Norma was to have such a lovely, tactful mother, "because I
usually have to walk. But if your husband is a doctor, couldn't he
bring you over to call some afternoon? Doctors are always on the
road, I know." 

A curious expression swept over Mrs. Guerin's face, inexplicable
to Betty. She avoided a direct answer to the invitation by sending
the girls out to the kitchen for lemonade and cakes and blowing
out the lamp and raising the shades herself. The brief thunderstorm
was about over, and the sun soon shone brightly. 

Alice wheeled the tea-wagon out on the porch, and the four spent a
merry half hour together. Betty felt that she had made three real
friends, and the Guerins, for their part, were agreeably delighted
with the young girl who was so alone in the world and who, while
they knew she must have a great deal that was unpleasant to
contend with, resolutely talked only of her happy times. 

Betty had just risen to go when a runabout stopped at the curb and
a gray-haired man got out and came up the path. 

"There's father!" cried Norma, jumping up to meet him. "Father,
the Rutans telephoned over an hour ago. I couldn't get you
anywhere. It was before the storm." 

"Hal, this is Betty Gordon," said the doctor's wife, drawing Betty
forward. "She is the girl staying with the Peabodys. Do you have to
go out directly?" 

"Just want to get a few things, then I'm off," answered the doctor
cheerily.  "Miss Betty, if you don't mind waiting while I stop in at
the drug store, I'm going half of your way and will be glad to give
you a lift. The roads will be muddy after this rain." 

Betty accepted the kind offer thankfully, and Mrs. Guerin and the
girls went down to the car with her. They each kissed her
good-bye, and Mrs. Guerin's motherly touch as she ducked the
linen robe over Betty's knees brought thoughts of another mother
to the little pink-frocked figure who waved a farewell as the car
coughed its sturdy way up the street. 

At the drug store the doctor got his medicines and Betty her
pictures, which she paid for and slipped into her bag without
looking at. She liked Doctor Guerin instinctively, and indeed he
was the type of physician whom patients immediately trusted and
in whom confidence was never misplaced. 

"You look like an outdoor girl," he told her as he turned the car
toward the open country. "I don't believe you've had to take much
in the way of pills and powders, have you?" 

Betty smiled and admitted that her personal acquaintance with
medicine was extremely limited. 

"Mrs. Peabody has headaches all the time," she said anxiously. "I
think she ought to see a doctor. And one day last week she fainted,
but she insisted on getting supper." Doctor Guerin bit his lip. 

"Guess you'll have to be my ally," he said mysteriously. "Mrs.
Peabody was a patient of mine, off and on, for several years—ever
since I've practiced in Glenside, in fact. But—well, Mr. Peabody
forbade my visits finally; said he was paying out too much for
drugs. I told him that his wife had a serious trouble that might
prostrate her at any time, but he refused to listen. Ordered me off
the place one day when Mrs. Guerin was in the car with me, and
was so violent he frightened her. That was some time ago." The
doctor shook his head reminiscently. "Mrs. Peabody in the house
was groaning with pain and Mrs. Guerin was imploring me to back
the car before Peabody killed me. He was shouting like a mad
man, and it was Bedlam let loose for sure. 

"I went, because there was nothing else to do, but I managed to get
word to the poor soul, through that boy, Bob Henderson, that if she
ever had a bad attack and would send me word, day or night, I'd
come if I had to bring the con- stable to lock that miser up out of
the way first. I suspect he is a coward as well as a bully, but
fighting him wouldn't better his wife's position any; he would only
take it out on her." 

"Yes, I think he would," agreed Betty. "I used to wonder how she
stood him. But telling her what I think of him doesn't help her, and
now I don't do that any more if I think in time." 

"Well, you may be able to help her by sending me word if she is
taken ill suddenly," said the doctor. "I'm sure it is a comfort to her
to have you with her this summer.  Now here's the boundary line.
Sorry I can not take you all the way in, but it would only mean an
unpleasant row."                    

Instead of half way, the doctor had taken her almost to the
Peabody lane, and Betty jumped down and thanked him heartily.
She was glad to have been saved the long muddy walk. She was
turning away when a thought struck her. 

"How could I reach you if Mrs. Peabody were ill?" she asked.
"There's no 'phone at Bramble Farm, you know." 

"The Kepplers have one," was the reply, Doctor Guerin cranking
his car. "They'll be glad to let you use it any time for any message
you want to send." 

Betty found no one in the house when she reached it, the men
being still at work in the field and Mrs. Peabody out in the chicken
yard. Betty took off her pretty frock and put on a blue and white
gingham and her white shoes. She was determined not to allow
herself to get what Mrs. Peabody called "slack," and she
scrupulously dressed every afternoon, whether she went off the
farm or not. 

The pictures, she discovered when she examined them, were
exceptionally good. Lieson, in particular, had proved an excellent
subject, and Betty privately decided that he was more attractive in
his working clothes than he could ever hope to be in the stiff black
and white she knew he would assume for Sunday. She took the
prints and went downstairs to await an opportunity to show them. 

Bob Henderson was in the kitchen, doing something to his hand.
Betty experienced a sinking sensation when she saw a
blood-stained rag floating in the basin of water on the table. 

"Bob!" she gasped. "Did you hurt yourself?" 

Bob glanced up, managing a smile, though he was rather white
around the mouth. 

"I cut my finger," he said jerkily. "The blame thing won't stop
bleeding." 

"I have peroxide upstairs!" Betty flew to get the bottle. 

It was a nasty cut, but she set her teeth and washed it thoroughly
with the antiseptic and warm water before binding it up with the
clean, soft handkerchief she had brought back with her. Bob had
been clumsily trying to make a bandage with his dark blue
bandana handkerchief, all the lad had. 

"How did you do it?" asked Betty, as she tied a neat knot and
tucked the ends in out of sight. "I'll fix you some more cloths
to-night; you'll have to wash that cut again in the morning." Bob
was putting away the basin and now he went off to get the pails of
slop for the pigs. Betty thought he had not heard her question, but
when Lieson came in for a drink of water and saw the pictures he
unconsciously set her right. Lieson was greatly pleased with his
picture, and looked so long at the other prints that Betty feared lest
Mr. Peabody should come in and make an accusation of wasted
time. 

"That's a good picture of Bob, too," commented Lieson. "He cut his
hand this afternoon on the hoe. The old man come down where he
was hoeing corn, and just as he got there Bob cut a stalk; you can't
always help it. Peabody flew into a rage and grabbed, the hoe. Bob
thought he was going to strike him with it, and he put up his hand
to save his head, and Peabody brought the sharp edge of the hoe
down so it nicked his finger. Guess he won't be able to milk
to-night." 

Betty stood in the doorway of the kitchen and stared away into the
serene green fields. 

"It looks so peaceful," she thought wearily. "And yet to live in such
a place doesn't seem to have the slightest effect on people's
dispositions. I wonder why?" 

CHAPTER XV NURSE AND PATIENT 

WHEN the next Sunday came round the shrill song of the locusts
began early, foretelling a hot day. The heat and the flies and the
general uninviting appearance of the breakfast table irritated Betty
more than usual, and only consideration for Mrs. Peabody, who
looked wretchedly ill, kept her at the table through the meal. 
Lieson and Mr. Peabody bickered incessantly, and Wapley, who
had taken cold, coughed noisily. 

"Guess I'll go over and see Doc Guerin an' get him to give me
something for this cold," Wapley mumbled, after a particularly
violent paroxysm. "Never knew folks had colds in summer, but I
got one for sure." 

"You take some of that horse medicine out on the barn shelf,"
advised Peabody. "The bottle's half full, and I'll sell it to you for a
quarter. The doctor's stuff will cost you all of a dollar, and that
horse medicine will warm you up fine. That's all you want,
anyway, something to kind of heat up your pipes." 

Betty hoped fervently that the man would not follow this
remarkable prescription, and it was with actual relief that she saw
him come downstairs an hour later arrayed in his best clothes
ready to walk to town.  She had her camera ready and stood
patiently in the sun for fifteen minutes till she had taken the
promised pictures. Wapley was snapped alone and with Lieson,
and then a photograph of Lieson alone, and then it was Bob's turn.
That usually amiable youth was . inclined to be sulky, but finally
yielded to persuasion. Betty was anxious to send a full set of
pictures to her uncle, and while Bob's "Sunday best" was exactly
the same as his week-day attire, still, as she pointed out, he could
wear his pleasantest expression for a "close up." 

The cause for Bob's crossness was revealed after Lieson and
Wapley had started for Glenside. His sore finger was swollen and
gave him considerable pain. 

"Why didn't you go with them and see the doctor?" scolded Betty.
"Go now. I think the cut should be opened, Bob." 

"I'm not going," said Bob flatly. "Where'd I get any money to pay
him?" 

"I have some—" Betty was beginning, but he cut her short with the
curt announcement that he was not going to let her do everything
for him. 

"Well, then, go over and let Doctor Guerin examine your finger
and offer to work it out for him in some way," urged Betty. "Don't
be silly about money, Bob; any doctor does his work first and then
asks about his pay. Won't you go?" 

"No, I won't," retorted Bob ungraciously. "I'm too dog-gone tired to
walk that far, anyway. Let's take books out to the orchard, and if
you have any crackers or anything, we won't come back for dinner.
I hate that hot kitchen!" 

This was very unlike Bob, and Betty noticed that his face was
flushed and his eyes heavy. She was sure he had fever, but she
knew it was useless to argue with him. So, like the sensible girl
she was, she tried to make him comfortable without further
consulting him. She had a new parcel of magazines he had not
seen, and without asking Mrs. Peabody, she took a square rug from
the parlor for him to lie on and the pillow from her bed. Mrs.
Peabody she knew would not object to the rug being used, but Mr.
Peabody was shaving in the kitchen, and if he heard the request
would instantly deny it. 

On her last trip to the town Betty had bought a dozen lemons and a
package of soda fountain straws, and when Bob complained of
thirst, she surprised him with a lemonade. Fortunately the water
from the spring in one of the meadows was icy cold. 

Bob's "Gee, that's good!" more than repaid her for her trouble and
the heat headache that throbbed in her temples from her hurried
journeys down to the spring. 

There was a faint breeze stirring fitfully in the orchard, and it was
shady. Betty read aloud to Bob until he fell asleep. After he was
unconscious, she looked at him pityingly, noting the sore finger
held stiffly away from its fellows and the pathetic droop of the
boyish mouth. 

"His mother would be so sorry!" she thought, folding up a paper to
serve as a fan and beginning to fan him gently. "I wonder how he
happened to be born in the poorhouse. He has nice hands and feet,
well-proportioned, that is, and mother always said that was a mark
of good breeding. Besides, I know from the way he speaks and acts
that he is different from these hired men." 

Betty continued to fan till she saw Mrs. Peabody come out of the
kitchen and go to the woodshed. Then she ran in to tell her that
Bob would probably sleep through dinner and that would be one
less for the noon meal. Sunday dinner was never an elaborate
affair in the Peabody household. and Betty insisted on helping
Mrs. Peabody to-day, since she could not induce her to go away
from the kitchen and lie down. The men had said they were going
to stay in town till milking time, and only Mr. and Mrs. Peabody
and Betty sat down to the sorry repast at one o'clock. There was
little conversation, and Mr. Peabody was the only one who made a
pretense of eating what was served. 

"Now you go upstairs, and let me do the dishes," said Betty to Mrs.
Peabody, as her husband put on his hat and went out at the
conclusion of the meal. "If you'll undress and go to bed, I'll get
supper and feed the chickens. You look so fagged out." 

"It's the heat," sighed Mrs. Peabody. "Land, child, I've crawled
through a sight of summers, and won't give out awhile yet, I guess.
You're the one to watch out. Keep in out of the sun, and don't run
your feet off waiting on Bob. I'll show you something, though, if
you won't let on." 

She beckoned Betty to one corner of the kitchen where a
fly-specked calendar hung. 

"Look here," said Mrs. Peabody. "Nobody knows what these pencil
marks mean but me— I made 'em. Now's the second week in July—
there's seventeen days of July left. Thirty-one days in August. And
most generally you can count on the first week of September being
hot— that makes fifty-five days. Three meals a day to get, or one
hundred and sixty-five meals in all." 

"Then what?" asked the hypnotized Betty. 

"Oh, then it begins to get a little cooler," said Mrs. Peabody
listlessly. "I've counted this way for three summers now. Somehow
it makes the summer go faster if you can see the days marked off
and know so many meals are behind you." 

Inexperienced as Betty was, it seemed infinitely pathetic to her
that any one should long for the summer days to be over, and she
realized dimly that the loneliness and dullness of her hostess' daily
life must be beginning to prey on her mind. She helped dry the
dishes, went upstairs with Mrs. Peabody and bathed her forehead
with Cologne and closed the shutters of her room for her. Then,
hoping she might sleep for a few hours as she resolutely refused to
give up for the rest of the day, Betty hurried to put on her thinnest
white frock and went back to the orchard. She found her patient
awake and decidedly feeling aggrieved. 

"I've been awake for ages," he greeted her. "Gee, isn't it hot! You
look kind of pippin' too. Do you know, I've been thinking about
that riding habit of yours, Betty. What are you going to do with it?" 

"Keep it till I go somewhere else where there'll be a chance to
learn to ride," answered Betty. "Why?" 

"Oh, I was just thinking," and Bob turned over on his back to stare
up through the branches. "You'll get away from here sooner than I
shall, Betty. But, believe me, the first chance I get I'm going to
streak out. Peabody's got no claim on me, and I've worked out all
the food and clothes he's ever given me. The county won't care—
they've got more kids to look after now than they can manage, and
one missing won't create any uproar. I'd like to try to walk from
here to the West. They say my mother had people out there
somewhere." 

"Tell me about her," urged Betty impulsively. "Do you remember
her, Bob?" 

"She died the night I was born," said Bob quietly.  "My father was
killed in a railroad wreck they figured out. You see my mother was
a little out of her head with grief and shock when they found her
walking along the road, singing to herself. All she had was the
clothes on her back and a little black tin box with her marriage
certificate in it and some papers that no one rightly could
understand. They sent her to the alms- house, and a month later I
was born. The old woman who nursed her said her mind was
perfectly clear the few hours she lived after that, and she said that
'David,' my father, had been bringing her East to a hospital when
their train was wrecked. She couldn't remember the date nor tell
how long before it had happened, and after she died no one was
interested enough to trace things up. I was brought up in the baby
ward and went to school along with the others. Many is the boy
I've punched for calling me 'Pauper!' And then, when I was ten,
Peabody came over and said he wanted a boy to help him on his
farm; I could go to school in the winters, and he'd see that I had
clothes and everything I needed. I've never been to school a day
since, and about all I needed, according to him, was lickings. But
if I ever get away from here I mean to find out a few things for
myself." 

Bob paused for breath. His fever made him talkative, and Betty
had never known him so communicative. 

"Where is the tin box?" she asked with interest. 

"Buried, in the garden. I had sense enough to do that the first night
I came to Bramble Farm, and I've never dared dig it up since.
Afraid old Peabody might catch me. It's safer to leave it alone." 

Presently Bob went off to sleep again and Betty mused silently till
he woke, hungry, and then she gave him bouillon cubes dissolved
in hot water, for Mrs. Peabody was getting supper and Bob refused
to go to the table. The men came back and did the milking,
grumbling a little, but on the whole willing to save Bob's finger.
They had a rough fondness for the lad. 

When the heavy dew began to fall Betty had to appeal to Leison to
make Bob go into the house. He declared fretfully that the attic
was hot, and Betty knew it was like an, oven, but it was out of the
question for him to lie in the damp grass. She dressed his finger
freshly for him, Mrs. Peabody looking on, but offering not a word,
either of pity or curiosity. Betty wondered if she had grown into
the habit of keeping still till now it was impossible for her to voice
an emotion. 

Bob's finger dressed, Lieson bore him upstairs despite his protests,
and before the others went up to their rooms, Betty had the
satisfaction of hearing that Bob had already gone to sleep. 

Betty herself was extremely tired, for she had worked hard all day,
waiting on Bob and trying to save Mrs. Peabody in many ways.
She brushed out her thick hair and slipped into her nightgown,
thankful for the prospect of rest even the hardest of beds offered
her. She was asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. 

She had been asleep only a few minutes, or so it seemed, when.
something woke her. 

She sat up in bed, startled. Had some one groaned? 

CHAPTER XVI A MIDNIGHT CALL 

BETTY'S first thought was of Bob. Was he really sick? Then she
remembered that the boy slept in the attic and that she probably
could not have heard him if he had made the noise that woke her. 

Then the sound began again, deep guttural groans that sent a
shudder through the girl listening in the dark, and Betty knew that
Mrs. Peabody must be ill. She lit her lamp and looked at her
watch. Half-past one! She had been asleep several hours. .Slipping
on her dressing gown and slippers, Betty opened her door,
intending to go down the hall to the Peabodys' room and see what
she could do. To her relief, she saw Mr. Peabody, fully dressed
except for his shoes, which he carried in his hand, coming
shuffling down the hall. 

"You're going for the doctor?" said Betty eagerly. "Is Mrs. Peabody
very ill? Shall I go down and heat some water?" 

"I don't know how sick she is," answered the man sourly. "But I do
know I ain't going for that miserable, no-account doctor I ordered
off this farm once. If you're going to die, you're going to die, is' the
way I look at it, and all the groaning in the world ain't going to
help you. And a doctor to kill you off quicker ain't necessary,
either. I'm going out to the barn to get a little sleep. Here I've got a
heavy day's work on to-morrow, and she's been carrying on like
this for the better part of an hour." 

Betty stared at Mr. Peabody in horror. Something very like
loathing, and an amazement not unmixed with terror, seized her. It
was inconceivable that any one should talk as he did. 

"She must have a doctor!" she flung at him. "Send Bob—or one of
the men, Bob's half sick himself. If you won't call them, I will. I
won't stay here and let any one suffer like that. Listen! Oh, listen!" 

Betty put her hands over her ears, as a shrill scream of pain came
from Mrs. Peabody's room. 

"Send the men on a wild goose chase at this time of night?"
snarled Mr. Peabody. "Not if I know it. Morning will do just as
well if she's really sick. You will, will you?"  He lunged heavily
before Betty, divining her intention to reach the stairway that led
to the attic. A heavy door stood open for the freer circulation of
air, and this Peabody slammed and locked, dropping the key
triumphantly in his pocket. 

"You take my advice and go back to bed," he said.  "One woman
raising Cain at a time's enough. Go to bed and keep still before I
make you." 

Betty scarcely heard the implied threat. She heard little but the
heart-breaking groans that seemed to fill the whole house. Her
mind was made up. 

"I'm going myself!" she blazed, wrapping her gown about her. 
"Don't you dare stop me: I You've killed your wife, but at least the
neighbors are going to know about it. I'm going to telephone to
Doctor Guerin!" 

With a quick breath Betty blew out the lamp, which bewildered
Peabody for a moment. She dashed past him as he fumbled and
mumbled in the dark and slid down the banisters and jerked open
the front door, which luckily for her was seldom locked at night.
She ran down the steps across the yard and into the field, her heart
pounding like a trip hammer. On and on she ran, not daring to stop
to look behind her. When she heard steps gaining on her, her feet
dragged with despair, but her spirit flogged her on. 

"I won't give up, I won't give up!" she was crying aloud through
clenched teeth when the voice of Bob Henderson calling, "Betty!
Betty! it's all right!" sounded close to her shoulder. 

"You dear, darling Bob!" Betty turned radiantly to face the boy. 
"How did you get out? Hurry! We must hurry! Mrs. Peabody 'is so
sick!" 

"Easy there!" Bob caught her elbow as she stumbled over a bit of
rough ground. "The noise woke me up, and when we heard you
and Peabody, Lieson lowered me out of the window by the
bedsheet. We weren't sure what he'd do to you. Say, Betty, you'd
better let me go in and telephone unless you're afraid to go back. If
the Kepplers see you like that, they'll know there's been a row, and
they'll insist on your staying with them." 

"Oh, I have to go back," said Betty in a panic. "Mrs. Peabody needs
me. And I'm not afraid, if Doctor Guerin comes. I'll wait under this
tree for you, Bob. Only please hurry." And the boy hurried off. 

"Doctor'll be right out," reported Bob, coming back after what
seemed a long wait but was in reality a scant ten minutes. "I had a
great time waking the Kepplers up and a worse time getting hold
of Central. And of course Mrs. Keppler wanted all the details—just
like a woman. But doc answered right away after I gave his
number and said he'd be here in twenty minutes. He sure can run
his car when he has a clear road at night." 

"Bob," whispered Betty, beginning to tremble, "I—I guess maybe I
am afraid to go back to the house. Let's sit on the bank at the head
of the lane and wait for Doctor Guerin. He'll take us in the car. Mr.
Peabody won't dare do any- thing with a third person around." 

"Sure we will," agreed Bob. "It's fine and cool out here, isn't it?
Wonder why it can't be like this in the daytime." 

They walked back to the lane, cross-lots, and sat down under a
thorn-apple tree. Betty tucked her gown cosily around her feet and
sat close to Bob, prepared to watch the stars and await quietly the
doctor's coming. Then, to her astonishment as much as to Bob's
consternation, she began to cry. She could not stop crying. And
after she had cried a few minutes she began to laugh. She laughed
and sobbed and could not stop herself, and in short, for the first
time in her life, Betty had a case of hysterics. 

It was all very foolish, of course, and when Doctor Guerin found
them there in the road at half-past two in the morning, he scolded
them both soundly. 

"I gave you credit for more sense, Bob," said the doctor curtly, as
he helped Betty into the machine. "You should have left Betty with
Mrs. Keppler over night, or at least taken her straight home. If she
hasn't a heavy cold to pay for this it won't be your fault. I never
heard of anything quite so senseless!" 

"I wasn't going to stay with the Kepplers!" retorted Betty with
vigor. "I don't know them at all, and I hadn't anything to wear
down to breakfast! 'Sides there is Mrs. Peabody dreadfully sick
with no one to help her and Bob has a festered finger. He had a
high temperature this afternoon." 

"I'll look at the finger," promised Doctor Guerin grimly. "Don't let
me have to hunt for you, either, young man; no hiding out of sight
when you're wanted. And, Betty, you go to bed. I'll get Mrs.
Peabody comfortable and give her something so that she'll sleep
till I can send some one out from town. You can't nurse her and
run the house, you know. Your Uncle Dick would come up and
shoot us all. Go to bed immediately, and you'll be ready to help
us-in the morning." 

They had reached the house and Betty followed the doctor's orders.
Every one obeyed Doctor Guerin. Even Mr. Peabody, summoned
from the barn, though he was surly and far from pleasant, brought
hot water and a teaspoon and a tumbler at his bidding. Mrs.
Peabody had had these attacks before, and when she had taken the
medicine was soon relieved. Doctor Guerin stayed with her till she
fell asleep and then went down to the kitchen, taking the unwilling
Bob with him. The cut finger was lanced and dressed and strict
instructions issued that in two days Bob was to present himself at
the doctor's office to have the dressing changed. 

"And you needn't assume that obstinate look," said the doctor, who
watched him closely. "If you're so afraid you won't be able to pay
me, we'll drive a bargain. You recollect that odd little wooden
charm you made for Norma last summer? Well, the girls at
boarding school have 'gone crazy,' to quote my daughter, over the
trinket, and one of them offered her a dollar for it. Carve me a
couple more, when you have time, and that will make us square.
The girls were wondering the other day if you could do more." 

"I'll make six—" Bob was beginning radiantly, when the doctor
stopped him. 

"You will not," he said positively. "One dollar is your price, and
two of them will fully meet your obligations to me. If you can be
dog-gone businesslike, so can I." 

Doctor Guerin drove over again in the morning, bringing a tall
raw-boned red-haired Irishwoman who looked as though she were
able to protect herself from any insult or injury, real or fancied.
Wapley and Lieson were pitiably in awe of her, and Mr. Peabody
simply shriveled before her belligerent eye. She was to stay, said
the doctor, for a week at least and as much longer as Mrs. Peabody
needed her. 

"Did you see her spreading the butter on her bread?" demanded
Bob in a whisper, meeting Betty on the kitchen doorstep after the
first dinner Mrs. O'Hara had prepared. 

"Did you see Mr. Peabody?" returned Betty, in a twitter of delight.
"I was afraid to look at him, or I should have laughed. She tells me
to 'run off, child, and play; young things should be outdoors all
day,' and she does a barrel of work. Mrs. Peabody declares she is
living like a queen, with her meals served up to her. Poor soul, she
doesn't know what it means to have some one wait on her." 

Bob dared not stay away from Doctor Guerin's office; and indeed,
after receiving the order for the wooden charms, he was willing to
go. It was understood that he was to begin his carving as soon as
the finger had healed, and Betty was interested in the little trinket
he brought back with him to serve as a guide. 

"Did you really make that, Bob?" she cried in surprise. "Why, it's
beautiful—such an odd shape and so beautifully stained. You must
be ever so clever with your fingers. I believe, if you had some
paints, you could paint designs and perhaps sell a lot of them to a
city shop. Girls would just love to have them to wear on chains and
cords." 

Bob was immediately fired with ambition to make some money,
and indeed he could evolve marvelous and quaint little charms
with no more elaborate tools than an old knife and a bit of
sandpaper. He had an instinctive knowledge of the different grains,
and the wood he picked up in the woodshed, carefully selecting
smooth satiny bits. 

So all unknown to the Peabodys, Bob in his leisure time began to
carve curious treasures, and with his carving to dream boyish
dreams that lifted him out of the dreary present and carried him far
away from Bramble Farm to big cities and open prairies, to
freedom and opportunity. 

And Betty, who sometimes read aloud to him as he carved and
sometimes sewed, sitting beside him, began to dream dreams too.
Always of a home somewhere with Uncle Dick, a real home in
which there should be a fireplace and an extra chair for Bob. For
your girl dreamer always plans for her friends and for their
happiness, and she seldom dreams for herself alone. 

So July with its heat and thunderstorms ran into August. 

CHAPTER XVII AN OMINOUS QUARREL 

MRS. O'HARA went back to Glenside at the end of ten days,
leaving Mrs. Peabody well enough to be about, though the doctor
had cautioned her repeatedly not to overdo. Doctor Guerin came
for Mrs. O'Hara in his car, and it was to be his last visit unless he
was sent for again. Bob's finger had healed, and he was hard at
work at his carving in spare moments. 

"Norma hopes you will come over to see her soon," said Doctor
Guerin to Betty, as he was leaving. "She and Alice have their heads
full of boarding school. By the way, Betty, what do you intend to
do about school?" 

"Well, I keep hoping Uncle Dick will write. It's been three weeks
since I've had any kind of letter," answered Betty. She had long
ago told the doctor about her uncle and the reasons that led to her
coming to Bramble Farm. "When he wrote he was in a town where
there were only six houses and no hotel. He must come East soon,
and then he will receive my letters and send for me. I'm sure I
could go to school and keep house for him, too." 

The car with the doctor and his convincing personality and Mrs.
O'Hara and her quick tongue and heavy hand were hardly out of
sight, before Mr. Peabody assumed command of his household. He
had been chafing under the rule of that "red-haired female," as he
designated the capable Irishwoman, and now he was bound to
make the most of his restored power. 

"Gee, he sure is a driver," whispered the perspiring Bob, as Betty
came down to the field where the boy was cultivating corn. Betty
had brought a pail of water and a dipper, and Bob drank gratefully. 

"No, don't give the horse any," he interposed, as Betty seemed
about to hold the pail out to the sorrel who looked around with
patient, pleading eyes. "He'll have to wait till noon. 'Tisn't good to
water a horse when he's working, anyway. Put the pail under that
tree and it'll keep cool. Lieson and Wapley go over to the spring
when they're thirsty, but Peabody said he'd whale me if he caught
me leaving the cultivator." 

"The mean old thing'" Betty could hardly find a word to express
her indignation. 

'Oh, it's all in the day's work," returned Bob philosophically. "What
are you doing?" "Hanging out clothes for Mrs. Peabody She's
getting another basketful ready now. She would wash, and that's as
much as she'll let me do to help her, though of course when she
irons I can be useful. I don't think she ought to get up and go to
washing, but you can't stop her." 

"Having a woman come to wash about killed the old man,"
chuckled Bob, starting the horse as he saw Mr. Peabody climbing
stiffly over the fence. "Thanks for the water, Betty." 

Betty had no wish to meet her host, for whom another check had
come that morning from her uncle's lawyer. Betty herself was out
of money, Uncle Dick having sent no letter for three weeks and
apparently having made no provision to bridge the gap. 

She hung out clothes till dinner time, and then helped put the
boiled dinner on the table in the hot, steamy kitchen. Wapley and
Lieson ate in silence, and Bob found a chance to whisper to Betty
that he thought there was "something doing" between them and
their employer. 

Whatever this something was, there were no further developments
till after supper. Peabody got up from the table and lurched out to
the kitchen porch to sit on the top step, as was his invariable
custom. He was too mean, his men said, to smoke a pipe, though
he did chew tobacco. Bob had already taken the milk pails and
gone to the barn. 

As Mrs. Peabody and Betty finished the dishes, Wapley and Lieson
came downstairs) dressed in their good clothes, and went out on
the porch where Mr. Peabody sat silently. 

"Can you let me have a couple of dollars tonight?" asked Lieson
civilly. "Jim and me's going over to town for a few hours." 

"You'll get no money from me," was the surly answer. "Fooling
away your time and money Saturday night ought to be enough,
without using the middle of the week for such extravagance.
Anyway, you know well enough I never pay out in advance." 

There was an angry murmur from Wapley. "Who's asking you for
money in advance?" he snarled. "Lieson and me's both got money
coming to us, and you know it. You pay us right up to the jot
to-night or we quit!" 

Peabody was quite unmoved. He stood up, leaning against a porch
post, his hands in his pockets. 

"You can quit, and good riddance to you," he drawled. "But you
won't get a cent out of me. You overdrew, both of you, last
Saturday, and there's nothing coming to you till a week from this
Saturday." 

The men were a little confused, neither accustomed to reckoning
without the aid of pencil and paper, but Wapley held doggedly to
his argument. 

"We quit anyway," he announced with more dignity than Betty
thought he possessed. She and Mrs. Peabody were listening
nervously at the window, both afraid of what the quarrel might
lead to. "You go pack our suitcases, Lieson, and I will figure up
what he owes us. Never again do we work for a man who cheats." 

Peabody leaned up against his post and chewed tobacco
reflectively, while Wapley, tongue in cheek, struggled with a stub
of pencil and a bit of brown wrapping paper. 

"There's twenty-five dollars coming to us," he announced. "Twelve
and a half apiece. Pay us, and we go." 

"I don't know about the going, but I know there won't be any
paying done," sneered Pea- body, just as Lieson with the two heavy
suitcases staggered through the door and Bob with his two foaming
pails of milk came up the steps. 

Bob put down the milk pails to listen, and Wapley took a step
toward Mr. Peabody, his face working convulsively. 

"You cheater!" he gasped. "You miserable sneak! You've held back
money all season, just to keep us working through harvest. If I had
a gun I'd shoot you!" 

The man was in a terrible rage, and Betty wondered how Mr.
Peabody could face him so calmly. Suddenly she saw something
glitter in his hand. 

"I've got my pistol right here," he said, raising his hand to wave the
blunt-nosed revolver toward Wapley. "I'll give you two just three
minutes to get off this place. Go on—I said go!" 

Wapley whirled about and saw the milk pails. He seized one in
either hand, raised them high above his head and dashed the
contents furiously over Bob, Mr. Peabody, the steps and the porch
impartially, sprinkling himself and Lieson liberally, too. 

"I never knew how much milk those cows gave," Bob said later.
"Seems like there must have been a regular ocean let loose." 

Mr. Peabody was furious and very likely would have fired, but Bob
put out his foot and tripped him, though he managed to pass the
matter off as an accident. Wapley and Lieson trudged slowly up
the lane, carrying the heavy cheap leather suit- cases. Betty
watched them as far as she could see them, feeling inexpressibly
sorry for the two who had worked through the long hot summer '
and were now leaving an unpleasant place with what she feared
was only a too well-founded grievance. 

"Some of you women," Peabody included Betty in the magnificent
gesture, "get to work out there and clean up the milk. There's
several pounds of butter lost, thanks to those no-'count fools. I'm
going after my gun." 

"Gun?" faltered Mrs. Peabody. 

"Yes, gun," snapped her husband. "I don't suppose it occurs to you
those idiots may take it into their heads to come back and burn the
barns ? Bob and me will sit up all night and try to save the cattle,
at least." 

Bob was furious at the idea of playing lockout all night, and he
was in the frame of mind by early morning where he probably
would have cheerfully supplied any arson-plotters with the
necessary match. But nothing happened, and very cross and sleepy,
he and Mr. Peabody came in to breakfast as usual. 

Betty, too, had not slept well, having wakened and pattered to the
window many times to see if the barns were blazing. Indeed, if
Lieson and Wapley had deliberately planned to upset the Peabody
family, they could not have succeeded better. 

Bob made up his lost sleep the next night, but his appetite came in
for Mr. Peabody's criticism. "You seem to be aiming to eat me out
of house and home," he observed at dinner a day or two later. 
"You don't have to eat everything in sight, you know. There'11 be
another meal later." Bob blushed violently, not because of the
reproof, for he was used to that, but because of the public disgrace.
Betty, the cause of his distress, was as uncomfortable as he, and
she experienced an un-Christianlike impulse to throw the dish of
beans at the head of her host. 

The following day Bob did not come in to dinner, and Betty,
thinking perhaps that he had not heard Mrs. Peabody call, rose
from the table with the intention of calling him a second time. 

"Where are you going?" demanded Mr. Peabody suspiciously. 

"To call Bob to dinner," said Betty.  "I'm afraid he didn't hear Mrs.
Peabody. The meat will be all cold." 

"You sit down, and don't take things on your- self that are none of
your concern," commanded Mr. Peabody shortly. "Bob isn't here
for dinner, because I told him not to come. He's getting too big to
thrash, and the only way to bring him to terms is to cut down his
food. Living too high makes him difficult to handle. This morning
he flatly disobeyed me, but I guess he'll learn not to do that again.
Well, Miss, don't swallow your impudence. Out with it I" 

CHAPTER XVIII IN THE NAME OF DISCIPLINE 

BETTY opened her mouth to speak hotly, then closed it again.
Argument was useless, and the distressed expression on Mrs.
Peabody's face reminded the girl that it takes two to make a
quarrel. 

Dinner was finished in silence, and as soon as he had finished Mr.
Peabody strode off to the barn. 

A plan that had been forming in Betty's mind took concrete form,
and as she helped clear the table she did not carry all the food
down cellar to the swinging shelf, but made several trips to one of
the window sills. Then, after the last dish was wiped and Mrs.
Peabody had gone upstairs to lie down, for her strength was
markedly slow in returning, Betty slipped out to the cellar window,
reached in and got her plate, and, carefully assuring herself that
Mr. Peabody was nowhere in sight, flew down the road to where
she knew Bob was trimming underbrush. "Gee, but you're a good
little pal, Betty," said the boy gratefully, as she came up to him.
"I'm about starved to death, that's a fact." 

"There isn't much there—just bread and potatoes and some corn,"
said Betty hurriedly. "Eat it quick, Bob. I didn't dare touch the
meat, because it would be noticed at supper. Seems to me we have
less to eat than ever." 

"Can't you see it's because Wapley and Lieson are gone?"
demanded Bob, his mouth full. "We're lucky to get anything at all
to eat. Your cupboard all bare?" 

"Haven't a single can of anything, nor one box of crackers," Betty
announced dolefully. "The worst of it is, I haven't a cent of money.
What can be the reason Uncle Dick doesn't write?" 

"Oh, you'll hear before very long. Jumping around the way he does,
he can't write a letter every day," returned Bob absently. 

He handed back the plate to Betty and picked up his scythe. 

"Don't let old Peabody catch you with that plate," he warned her.
"He's got a fierce grouch on to-day, because the road
commissioners notified him to get this trimming done. He's so
mean he hates to take any time off the farm to do road work." 

Betty went happily back to the house, for getting to be cautious in
her satisfaction of getting food to Bob, and at the kitchen door she
walked plump into Mr. Peabody. 

"So that's what you've been up to!" he re- marked unpleasantly.
"Sneaking food out to that no-'count, lazy boy! I'll teach you to be
so free with what isn't yours and to upset my discipline. Set that
plate on the table !" 

Betty obeyed, rather frightened . "Now you come along with me."
And, grasping her arm by the elbow, Mr. Peabody marched her
upstairs to her own room very much as though she were a
rebellious prisoner he had captured. 

"Sit down in that chair, and don't let me hear a word out of you,"
said the farmer, pushing her none too gently into the single chair
the room contained. 

From his pocket he drew a handful of nails, and, using the door
weight as a hammer, he proceeded deliberately to nail up the
window that opened on to the porch roof. 

"Now there'll be no running away," he commented grimly, when he
had finished. "Give kids what's coming to 'em, and they flare up
and try to wriggle out of it. You'll stay right here and do a little
thinking till I'm ready to tell you different. It's time you learned
who's running this house." 

He went out, and Betty heard him turn a key in the lock as he
closed the door. 

"So he's carried a key all the time !" cried the girl furiously. "I
thought there wasn't any for that door! And the idea of speaking to
me as he did—the miserable old curmudgeon!" 

She supposed she would have to stay locked in till it suited Mr.
Peabody to release her, and quite likely she would have nothing to
eat. If he could punish Bob in that fashion, there was no reason to
think he intended to be any more lenient with her. 

"Even bread and water would be better than nothing at all," said
Betty aloud. 

The sound of wheels attracted her attention, and she peered
through the window to see Mr. Peabody in conversation with a
stranger who had driven in with a horse and buggy. 

Mrs. Peabody was stirring, and presently Betty heard her go
downstairs, and a few minutes later she came out into the yard
ready to feed her chickens. 

"Don't let the hens out in the morning," ordered Mr. Peabody,
meeting her directly under Betty's open window. The girl knelt
down to listen, angry and resentful. "Ryerson was just here, and
I've sold the whole yard to him. I want to try Wyandottes next.
He'll be over about ten in the morning, and it won't hurt to keep
them in the henhouses till then." 

"Oh. Joseph!" Mrs. Peabody's voice was reproachful. "I've just got
those hens ready to be good layers this fall. You don't know how
I've worked over 'em, and culled the best and sprayed those dirty
old houses and kept 'em clean and disinfected. I don't want to try a
new breed. I want a little of the money these will earn this winter." 

"Well, this happens to be my farm and my livestock," replied her
husband cruelly. "If I see a chance to improve the strain, I'm going
to take it. You just do as I say, and don't let the hens out to-morrow
morning." 

His wife dragged herself out to the chicken yard, her brief
insistence having completely collapsed.  The girl listening
wondered how any woman could give in so easily to such palpable
injustice. 

"I suppose she doesn't care," thought Betty, stumbling on the heart
of the matter blindly. "If she did have her own way, that wouldn't
change him; he'd still be mean and small and not very honest and
she'd have to despise him just as much as ever. Things wouldn't
make up to her for the kind of man her husband is." 

Supper time came and went, and the odor of frying potatoes fame
up to Betty in delicious whiffs, though she had been known to turn
up her little freckled nose when this dish was passed to her. 

About eight o'clock Mr. Peabody unlocked the door and set inside
a plate of very dry bread and a small pitcher of water, locking the
door after him. Betty slid the bolt angrily and this gave her some
satisfaction. She ate her bread and water and listened for a while at
the window, hoping to hear Bob's whistle. But nothing disturbed
the velvety silence of the night, and by half-past nine Betty was
undressed and in bed, asleep. 

She woke early, as usual, dressed and unbolted her door, hungry
enough to be humble. But no bread and water arrived. 

The rattle of milk pails and the sounds which indicated that
breakfast was in progress ceased after a while and the house
seemed unusually quiet. Then, just as Betty decided to try tying the
bedclothes into a rope and lowering herself from the window, she
heard Bob's familiar whistle. 

"Hello, Princess Golden Hair!" Bob grinned up at her from the old
shelter of the lilac bush. "Let down your hair, and I'll send you up
some breakfast." 

This was an old joke with them, because Betty's hair was dark, and
while thick and smooth was not especially long. 

"I want you to help me get out of here!" hissed Betty furiously. "I
won't stay locked in here like a naughty little child. Can't you get
me a ladder or <I>something, </I>Bob, and not stand there like an
idiot?" 

"Gee, you are hungry," said Bob with commiseration. "Dangle me
down a string, Princess, and I'll send you up some bread with
butter on it. I helped myself to both. We can talk while you eat." 

Betty managed to find a strong, long string, and she threw one end
down to Bob, who tied the packet to it; then Betty hauled it up and
fell upon the food ravenously. 

"I got you into this pickle," said Bob regretfully. "Old Peabody
licked me for good measure last night, or I would have been round
at this window trying to talk to you. Awfully sorry, Betty. It must
be hot, too, with that other window nailed up." 

"Do you mean he whipped you?" gasped Betty, horrified. "Why?
And what did you do yesterday?" 

"Oh, yesterday I wouldn't back him up in a lie he tried to tell the
road commissioner," said Bob cheerfully. "And last night I sassed
him when I heard what he'd done to you. So we had an
old-fashioned session in the woodshed. But that's nothing for you
to worry over." 

"Where is he now?" asked Betty fearfully. 

"Gone over to Kepplers to see about buying more chickens,"
answered Bob. "Mrs. Peabody has gone to salt the sheep, and I'm
supposed to be cleaning harness in the barn." 

"Get me a ladder—now's my time!" planned Betty swiftly. "I could
bob my hair and you might lend me a pair of overalls, Bob. For I
simply won't come back here. It's too far to jump to the ground, or
I should have tried it. Hurry up, and bring me a ladder." 

"I'll get a ladder on one condition," announced Bob stubbornly.
"You must promise to go to Doctor Guerin's. No cutting your hair
and wandering around the country in boy's clothes. Promise?" 

Betty shook her head obstinately. 

"All right, you stay where you are," decreed Bob. "I have to go to
Laurel Grove, anyway, and I ought to be hitching up right now."
He turned away. 

"All right, I promise," capitulated Betty. "Hurry with the ladder
before Mr. Peabody comes back and catches us." 

Bob ran to the barn and was back in a few minutes with a long
ladder. 

CHAPTER XIX THE ESCAPE 

BETTY capered exultantly when she was on the ground. 

"I packed my things last night," she informed Bob. "If Mr. Peabody
isn't too mean, he'll keep the trunk for me and send it when I write
him to. Here, I'll help you carry back the ladder." 

"Take your sweater and hat," advised the practical Bob, pointing to
these articles lying on a chair on the porch where Betty had left
them the afternoon before. "You don't want to travel too light. I
think we'll have a storm before noon." 

Betty helped carry the ladder back to the barn and put it in place. 
Then she hung around watching Bob harness up the sorrel to the
dilapidated old wagon preparatory to driving to Laurel Grove, a
town to the east of Glenside. 

"I'd kind of like to say good-bye to Mrs. Peabody," ventured Betty,
trying to fix a buckle. 

"Well, you can't. That would get us both in trouble," returned Bob
shortly. "There! you've dawdled till here comes the old man. Scoot
out the side door and keep close to the hedge. If I overtake you
before you get to the crossroads I'll give you a lift. Doc Guerin will
know what you ought to do." 

Her heart quaking, Betty scuttled for the narrow side door and
crept down the lane, keeping close to the osage orange hedge that
made a thick screen for the fence. Evidently she was not seen, for
she reached the main road safely, hearing no hue and cry behind
her. 

"So you haven't started?" Peabody greeted the somewhat flustered
Bob, entering the barn and looking, for him, almost amiable.
"Well, hitch the horse, and go over to Kepplers. He wants you to
help him catch a crate of chickens. The horse can wait and you can
come home at twelve and go to Laurel Grove after dinner." 

Bob would have preferred to start on his errand at once, so that he
might be at a safe distance when Betty's absence should be
discovered; but he hoped that Peabody might not go near her room
till afternoon, and he knew Mrs. Peabody was too thoroughly
cowed to try to communicate with Betty, fond as she was of her. 

"I'll take a chance," thought Bob. "Anyway, the worst he can do to
me is to kill me." 

This not especially cheerful observation had seen Bob through
many a tight place in the past, and now he tied the patient horse
under a shady tree and went whistling over to the Keppler farm to
chase chickens for a hot morning's work. 

"Oh, Bob!" To his amazement, Mrs. Peabody came running to
meet him when he came back at noon to get his dinner. "Oh, Bob!" 

Poor Bob felt a wobbling sensation in his knees. 

"Yes?" he asked shakily. "Yes, what is it?" 

"The most awful thing has happened!" Mrs. Peabody wiped the
perspiration from her fore- head with her apron. "The most awful
thing! I never saw Joseph in such a temper, never! He swore till I
thought he'd shrivel up the grass! And before Mr. Ryerson, too!" 

Bob's face cleared. 

"Did he try to cheat Ryerson?" he asked eagerly. "That is, er—I
mean did he think Ryerson was trying to cheat him?" 

"Cheat?" repeated Mrs. Peabody, sitting down on an old tree stump
to get her breath. "No one said anything about cheating. I don't
know exactly how to tell you, Bob. Betty has gone and she's taken
all the chickens with her!" 

Bob opened his eyes and mouth to their widest extent. Chickens!
Betty! The words danced through his brain stupidly. 

"I don't wonder you look like that," said Mrs. Peabody. "I was in a
daze myself." 

"But she couldn't have taken the chickens!" argued Bob,
restraining a mad desire to laugh. "How could she? And what
would she want with them?" 

"Well, of course, I don't mean she took them with her," admitted
Mrs. Peabody. "But she was mad at Joseph, you know, for locking
her in her room, and he says she's just driven the hens off to the
woods to spite him." 

Bob walked out to the poultry yard, followed by Mrs. Peabody.
The doors of the henhouses were flung wide open, and there was
not a fowl in sight. 

"When did you find it out?" he asked. 

"When Mr. Ryerson drove in for the hens," answered Mrs.
Peabody. "Joseph went out with him to help him bag 'em, and the
minute he opened the door he gave a yell. I was making beds, but I
heard him. The way he carried on, Bob, was a perfect scandal. I
never heard such talk, never!" 

"Where is he now?" said Bob briefly. 

"He's gone over to the woods, hunting for the hens," replied Mrs.
Peabody. "He wouldn't stop for dinner, or even to take the horse.
He says you're to start for Laurel Grove, soon as you've eaten. He's
going to search the woods and then follow the Glenside road,
looking for Betty." 

Bob did not worry over the possibility of Betty being overtaken by
the angry farmer. He counted on her getting a lift to Glenside,
since the road was well traveled in the morning, and probably she
was at this very moment sitting down to lunch with the doctor's
family. He was puzzled about the loss of the chickens, and curious
to know how the Peabodys had discovered Betty's escape. 

He and Mrs. Peabody sat down to dinner, and, partly because of
her excitement and partly be- cause in her husband's absence she
dared to be more generous, Bob made an excellent meal. Over his
second piece of pie he ventured to ask when they had found out
that Betty was not in her room. 

"Oh, Joseph thought of her as soon as he missed the chickens,"
answered Mrs. Peabody. "I never thought she would be spiteful,
but I declare it's queer, anyway you look at it. Joseph flew up to
her room and unlocked the door, and she wasn't there! Do you
suppose she could have jumped from the window and hurt
herself?" 

Bob thought it quite possible. 

"Well, I don't," said Mrs. Peabody shrewdly. "However, I'm not
asking questions, so there's no call for you to get all red. Joseph
seemed to think she had jumped out, and he's furious be- cause he
didn't nail up both windows, though how he expected Betty to
breathe in that case is more than I can see." 

Bob was relieved to learn that apparently Mr. Peabody did not
connect him with Betty's disappearance. He finished his dinner and
went out to do the few noon chores. Then he started on the drive to
Laurel Grove. 

"Looks like a storm," he muttered to himself, as he noted the heavy
white clouds piling up toward the south. "I wish to goodness, old
Peabody would spend a few cents and get an awning for the seat of
this wagon. Last time I was caught in a storm I got soaked, and my
clothes didn't dry overnight. I'll be hanged if I'm going to get wet
this time—I'll drive in somewhere first." 

Bob's predictions of a storm proved correct, and before he had
gone two miles he heard distant thunder. 

With the first splash of rain Bob hurried the sorrel, keeping his
eyes open for a mail-box that would mark the home of some
farmer where he might drive into the barn and wait till the shower
was over. 

He came within sight of some prosperous looking red barns before
the rain was heavy, and drove into a narrow lane just as the first
vivid streak of lightning ripped a jagged rent in the black clouds. 

"Come right on in," called out the farmer, who had seen him
coming and thrown open the double doors. "Looks like it  might be
a hummer, doesn't it? There's a ring there in the wall where you
can tie your horse." 

"He stands without hitching," grinned Bob. "Only too glad to get
the chance. Gee, that wind feels good!" 

The farmer brought out a couple of boxes and turned them up to
serve as seats. 

"I like to watch a storm," he observed. "The house is all locked
up—women-folk gone to an all-day session of the sewing circle—or
I'd take you in. We'd get soaked walking that short distance,
though. You don't live around here, do you?" 

"Bramble Farm. I'm a poorhouse rat the Peabodys took to bring
up." 

He had seldom used that phrase since Betty's coming, but it always
irritated him to try to ex- plain who he was and where he came
from. 

"I was bound out myself," retorted the farmer quickly. "Knocked
around a good bit, but now I own this ninety acres, free and clear.
You've got just as good a chance as the boy with too much done
for him.  Don't you forget that, young man." 

They were silent for a few moments, watching the play of
lightning through the wide doors. 

"Didn't two men named Wapley and Lieson used to work for
Peabody?" asked the farmer abruptly. "I thought so," as Bob
nodded. "They were around the other day asking for jobs." 

"Are you sure?" asked Bob. "I thought they had left the state.
Lieson, I know, had folks across the line." 

"Well, they may have gone now," was the re- ply. "But I know that
two days ago they wanted work. I've a couple of men, all I can use
just now, but I sent them on to a neighbor. They looked strong, and
good farm help is mighty scarce." 

Bob waited till the rain had stopped and the clouds were lifting,
then drove on, thanking the friendly farmer for his cordiality. 

"Don't be calling yourself names, but plan what you want to make
of yourself," was that individual's parting advice. 

"If I had a nickel," said Bob to himself, urging the sorrel to a brisk
trot, for the time spent in waiting must be made up, "I'd telephone
to Betty from Laurel Grove. But pshaw! I know she must be all
right." 

CHAPTER XX  STORMBOUND ON THE WAY 

BOB would not have dismissed his misgivings so contentedly had
he been able to see Betty just at that moment. 

When she shook the dust of Bramble Farm from her feet, which
she did literally at the boundary line on the main road, to the great
delight of two curious robins and a puzzled chipmunk, she said
firmly that it was forever. As she tramped along the road she kept
looking back, hoping to hear the rattle of wheels and to see Bob
and the sorrel coming after her. But she reached the crossroads
without being overtaken. 

Years ago some thoughtful person had taken the trouble to build a
rude little seat around the four sides of the guidepost where the
road to Laurel Grove and Glenside crossed, and in a nearby field
was a boarded-up spring of ice-cold water, so that travelers, on
foot and in motor-cars and wagons, made it a point to rest for a
few minutes and refresh themselves there. Betty was a trifle
embarrassed to find a group of men loitering about the guide-post
when she came up to it 

They were all strangers to her, but with the ready friendliness of
the country, they nodded respectfully. 

"Want to sit down a minute, Miss?" asked a gray-haired man
civilly, standing up to make room for her.  "Didn't expect to see so
many idle farmers about on a clear morning) did you?" 

Betty shook her head, smiling. 

"I won't sit down, thank you," she said in her clear girlish voice.
"I'll just get a drink of water and go on; I want to reach Glenside
before noon." 

"Glenside road's closed," announced one of the younger men,
shortly. 

"Closed!" echoed Betty. "Oh, no! I have to get there, I tell you." 

Her quick, frightened glance fell on the man who had first spoken
to her, and she appealed to him. 

"The road isn't closed, is it?" she asked breath. lessly. "That isn't
why you're all here?" 

"Now, now, there's nothing to worry your head about," answered
the gray-haired farmer soothingly. "Jerry, here, is always a hit
abrupt with his tongue. As a matter of fact, the road is closed; but
if you don't mind a longer walk, you can make a detour and get to
Glenside easily enough." 

Betty gazed at him uncertainly. 

"You see," he explained, "King Charles, the prize bull at
Greenfields, the big dairy farm, got out this morning, and we
suppose he is roaming up and down between here and Glenside.
He's worth a mint of money, so they don't want to shoot him, and
the dairy has offered a good reward for his safe return. He's got a
famous temper, and no one would deliberately set out to meet him
unarmed; so we're posted here to warn folks. A few automobiles
took a chance and went on, but the horses and wagons and foot
passengers take the road to Laurel Grove. You turn off to the left at
the first road and follow that and it brings you into Glenside at the
north end of town. You'll be all right." 

"A girl shouldn't try to make it alone," objected another one of the
group. "You take my advice, Sis, and wait till your father or
brother tan take you over in the buggy. Suppose you met a camp of
Gypsies?" 

"Oh, I'm not afraid," Betty assured him. "That is, not of people. But
I don't know what in the world I should do if I met an angry bull.
I'll take the detour, and everything will be all right. I'm used to
walking." 

The men repeated the directions again, to make sure she
understood clearly. Then Betty drank a cup of the fresh, cold
spring water, and bravely set off on the new road. 

The gray-haired man came running after her. 

"If it should storm," he cried, coming up with her, "don't run under
a tree. Better stay out in the rain till you reach a house. You'll be
safe in any farmhouse." 

He meant safe as far as the kind of people she would meet were
concerned, but Betty, who had never in her life feared any one,
thought he referred to protection from the elements.  She thanked
him, and trudged on. 

"I certainly am hungry," she said, after a half hour of tramping.
"Now I know how Bob feels without a cent in his pocket. I'll have
to ask Doctor Guerin for some money. I can't get along without a
nickel. Uncle Dick must be awfully busy, or else he's sick.
Otherwise he would surely let me hear from him." 

When she came to an old apple orchard where the trees drooped
over a crumbling stone wall, Betty had no scruples about filling
the pockets and sleeves of her sweater with the apples that lay on
the ground. Bob had told her that portions of trees that grew over
the roadside were public property, and she intended to explain to
the farmer, if she met him, how she had come to carry off some of
his fruit. But she met no one and saw no house, and presently the
rumble of distant thunder put all thoughts of apples out of her
mind. 

"My goodness!" She looked at the mountain of white clouds piling
up with something like panic. "I haven't even come to the road that
turns, and I just know this will be a hard thunderstorm. Mrs.
Peabody said last week that the August storms are terrors. I'll run,
and perhaps I'll come to a house." 

Holding her sweater stuffed with apples in her arms, and jamming
her hat firmly on her head, Betty flew down the road, bouncing
over stones, jumping over, without a shudder, a mashed
blacksnake flattened out in the road by some passing car, and, in
defiance of all speed regulations, refusing to slow up at a sharp
turn in the road ahead. She took it at top speed, and as she rounded
the curve the first drops of rain splashed her nose. But her flight
was rewarded. 

A long, low, comfortable-looking farmhouse sat back in an
overgrown garden on one side of the road. 

"D. Smith," read Betty on the mail box at the gate. "Well, Mrs. D.
Smith; I hope you're at home, and I hope you'll ask me to come in
and rest till the storm's over. Shall I knock at the back or the front
door?" 

A vivid flash of lightning sent her scurrying across the road and up
the garden path. As she lifted the black iron knocker on the front
door a peal of thunder rattled the loose casements of the windows. 

Betty lifted the knocker and let it fall three times before she
decided that either Mrs. D. Smith did not welcome callers at the
front of her house, or else she could not hear the knocker from
where she was. But a prolonged rat-a-tat-tat on the back door
produced no further results. 

"She may be out getting the poultry in," said Betty to herself,
recalling how hard Mrs. Peabody worked every time a storm came
up. "Wonder "where the poultry yard is?" 

The rain was driving now, and the thunder irritatingly incessant.
Betty walked to the end of the back porch and stood on her tiptoes
trying to see the outbuildings. Then, for the first time, she noticed
what she would surely have seen in one glance at a less exciting
time. 

There were no outbuildings, only burned, and blackened holes in
the ground! A few loose bricks marked the site of masonry-work,
and a charred beam or two fallen across the gaps showed only too
plainly what had been the fate of barns and crib houses. 

Betty ran impulsively to a window, and, holding up her hands to
shut out the light, peered in. Cobwebs, dust and dirt and a few
empty tins in the sink were the only furniture of the kitchen. 

"It's empty!" gasped Betty. "No one lives here! Oh, gracious!" 

A great fork of lightning shot across the sky, followed at once by a
deafening crash of thunder. Far across the field, on the other side
of the road, Betty saw a tall oak split and fall. 

"I'm going in out of this," she decided, "if I have to break a window
or a lock!" 

She leaned her sturdy weight against the wooden door,
automatically turning the knob without thought of result. The door
swung easily open—there had been nothing to hinder her walking
in—and she tumbled in so suddenly that she had difficulty in
keeping her feet. 

Betty closed the door and looked about her. 

The storm shut out, she immediately felt a sense of security,
though a hasty survey of the three rooms on one side of the hall
failed to reveal any materials for a fire or a meal, two comforts she
was beginning to crave. She took an apple from her sweater
pocket, and, munching that, set out to explore the rooms on the
other side of the hall. 

A curious, yet familiar, noise drew her attention to the front room,
probably in happier days the parlor of the farmhouse. Peering in
through the partly open folding doors, Betty saw seven crates of
chickens! 

"Why—how funny!"   She was puzzled. "Where could they have
come from? And what are they doing here? Even if they saved
them from the fire, they wouldn't be left after all the furniture was
moved out." 

She went up to the crates and examined them more closely. 

'That black rooster is the living image of Mrs. Peabody's," she
thought. "And the White Leghorns look like her's, too. But, then, I
suppose all chickens look alike. I never could see how their hen
mothers told them apart." 

Still carrying her sweater with the apples, she wandered upstairs,
trying to people the vacant, dusty rooms and wondering what had
happened to those who had dwelt here and where they had gone. 

"I wonder if the fire was at night and whether they were terribly
frightened," she mused. "I should say they were mighty lucky to
save the house, though perhaps the barns are the most necessary
buildings on a farm. Why didn't they build them up again, instead
of moving out? I would." 

She was standing in one of the back rooms, and from the window
she could look down and see what had once been the garden. The
drenched rosebushes still showed a late blossom or two, and there
was a faint outline of orderly paths and a tangle of brilliant color
where flowers, self-sown, struggled to force their way through the
choking weeds. The drip, drip of the rain sounded dolefully on the
tin roof, and a cascade ran off at one corner of the house showing
where a leader was broken. Toward the west the clouds were
lifting, though the thunder still grumbled angrily. 

Betty went through the rather narrow hall and entered a pleasant,
prettily papered room where a low white rocking chair and a pink
sock on the floor spoke mutely of the baby whose kingdom had
been bounded by the wide bay window. 

"They forgot the rocker," said Betty, drawing it up to the window
and resting her elbows on the narrow window ledge. "I hope he
was a fat, pretty baby." she went on, picking up the sock and
holding it in her hand. "Is that some one coming down the road?" 

It was—two people in fact; and as they drew nearer Betty's eyes
almost popped out with astonishment. The pair talking together so
earnestly, completely oblivious of the rain, were Lieson and
Wapley, the two men who had worked for Mr Peabody! And they
were turning in at the path guarded by the mail box inscribed "D.
Smith." 

Betty flew to the door of the room where she sat and drew the bolt. 

CHAPTER XXI  THE CHICKEN THIEVES 

OVER in one corner of the bay-window room, as Betty had
already named it, was a black register in the floor, designed to let
the warm air from a stove in the parlor below boat the bedroom
above. Toward this Betty crept cautiously, testing each floor board
for creams before she trusted her whole weight to it. She reached
the register, which was open, and was startled at the view it
opened up for her. She drew back hastily, afraid that she would be
discovered. 

Lieson and Wapley stood almost squarely under the register, above
the crates of chickens and looking down on the fowls. 

"I began to think you wasn't coming," Lieson said slowly, putting a
hand on his companion's shoulder to steady himself as he lurched
and swayed. "I got soaked to the skin waiting for you in those
bushes." 

"Well, it's some jaunt to Laurel Grove," came Wapley's response.
"I got a man, though. Coming at ten to-night. There's no moon, and
he says he can make the run to Petria in six or seven hours, barring
tire trouble." 

"Does he take us, too?" demanded Lieson. "I'm tired of hanging
around here. What kind of a truck has he got ?" 

Wapley was so long in answering that Betty nervously wondered if
he could have discovered the register. She risked a peep and found
that both men were absorbed in filling their pipes. These lighted
and drawing well, Wapley consented to answer his companion's
question. 

"Got a one-ton truck. Plenty of room under the seat for us. He's
kind of leery of the constables, 'cause he's been doing a nice little
night trade between Laurel Grove and Petria carrying one thing
and another, but he's willing to do the job on shares." 

Lieson yawned noisily. 

"Wish we had some grub," he observed. "Guess the training we got
at Peabody's will come in handy if we don't eat again till we sell
the chickens. Wouldn't you like to have seen the old miser's face
when he found his chickens were gone?" 

So, thought Betty, she had not been mistaken; the black rooster
was the same one who had been the pride of Mrs. Peabody's heart. 

A burst of harsh laughter from Wapley startled her. Leaning
forward, she could see him stretched out on the floor, his head
resting on his coat, doubled up to form a pillow. 

"What do you know!" he gurgled, the tears standing in his eyes. 
"Didn't I run into Bob Henderson, of all people!" 

Lieson was incredulous. 

"You're fooling," he said sullenly.  "What would Bob be doing in
Laurel Grove? Unless he was playing ferret!  I'd wring his neck
with pleasure if I thought the old man sent him over to spy." 

"Don't worry," counseled Wapley, waving his pipe airily. "The lad
doesn't hook us up with the missing biddies. They never knew they
were stolen till ten o'clock this morning. The old man sold 'em to
Ryerson, and the hen houses stayed shut up till he came to get 'em.
Can you beat that for luck?" 

Both men went off into roars of laughter. 

"We needn't have spent the night lifting 'em," said Lieson when he
could speak. "I hate to lose my night's rest. What did Bob say about
it? Was the old man mad?" 

" 'Bout crazy," admitted Wapley gravely. "Bob wasn't home, but
the old lady told him he carried on somethin' great. Wish we could
'a' heard him rave. But, Lieson, you haven't got it all. Betty
Gordon's run off, and Peabody's doped It out she ran off with the
hens!" 

The girl in the room above clapped her hand to her mouth. She had
almost cried out. So Mr. Peabody could accuse her of being a
thief! But what were the men saying? 

"What would the girl do with hens?" propounded Lieson. "Bob
think she stole 'em?" 

"Bob's so close-mouthed," growled Wapley. "But I guess he knows
where she went all right. He says she had nothing to do with the
hens disappearing, and I told him I thought he was right! But
Peabody figures out she was mad and chased 'em into the woods to
spite him. And he's hunting for her and his hens with fire in his
eye." 

Lieson knocked the ashes from his pipe and yawned again. 

"Wonder what Peabody's got against her now?" he speculated. "For
a boarder, that kid had a pretty pindling time. Well, if we're going
to be bumped around in a truck all night, I'll say we ought to take a
nap while we can get it." 

"All right," agreed Wapley. "But I ain't aiming to go on any such
trip without a bite of supper. The rain's stopped, and I'm going to
snooze a bit and then go down the road to that farmhouse and see
how they feel about feeding a poor unfortunate who's starving. I'll
milk for 'em for a square meal."   

Betty, shivering with excitement, crouched on the floor afraid to
risk moving until they should be asleep. Her one thought was to
get away from the house and find Bob. Bob would know what to
do. Bob would get the chickens back to the Peabodys and herself
over to the haven of Doctor Guerin's house, somehow. Bob would
be sorry for Wapley and Lieson even if they had turned chicken
thieves. If she could only get to Bob before he set out for home or
if she might meet him on the road, everything would be all right.
Bob <I> must </I> wait for her.   

There were no back stairs to the house, and it required grit to go
softly down the one flight of stairs and steal past the door of the
parlor where the two men lay, but Betty set her teeth and did it.
Once on the porch she put on her hat and sweater, for a cool wind
had sprung up; and then how she ran!   

The road was muddy, and her skirt was splashed before she slowed
down to gain her breath. Anxiously she scanned the road ahead,
wondering if there was another way Bob could take to reach
Bramble Farm. As usual when one is worried, a brand-new
torment assailed her. Suppose he should take the road to Glenside,
that he might stop in to see her! He, of course, pictured her safe at
the doctor's.   

"Want a lift?" drawled a lazy, pleasant voice.   

A gawky, blue-eyed boy about Bob Henderson's age beamed at her
from a dilapidated old buggy. The fat, white horse also seemed to
regard her benevolently.   

"It's sort of muddy," said the boy diffidently. "If you don't mind the
stuffing on the seat—it's worn through—I can give you a ride to
Laurel Grove."   

Betty accepted thankfully, but she was not very good company, it
must be confessed, her thoughts being divided between schemes to
hasten the desultory pace of the fat white horse and wonder as to
how she was to find Bob in the town.   

The fat white horse stopped of his own accord at a pleasant
looking house on the outskirts of the town, and Betty, in a brown
study, was suddenly conscious that the boy was waiting for her.   

"Oh!" she said in some confusion. "Is this your house ? Well, you
were ever so kind to give me a lift, and I truly thank you!"   

She smiled at him and climbed out, and the lad, who had been
secretly admiring her and wondering what she could be thinking
about so absorbedly, wished for the tenth time that he had a sister.
Laurel Grove was a bustling country town, a bit livelier than
Glenside, and Betty, when she had traversed the main street twice,
began to be aware that curious glances were being cast at her.   

"I'd go shopping, I'd do anything, for an excuse to go into every
store," she thought distractedly, "if only I had a dollar bill! Where
can Bob be? I can't have missed him!"   

There was every reason to think she had missed him, except her
determined optimism, but after she had been to the drug store and
the hardware store and the post-office, all more or less public
meeting places, and found no sign of Bob, Betty began to feel a
trifle discouraged. Then two men on the curb gave her a clue.   

"I've been hanging around all day," declared one, evidently a
thrifty farmer. "Came over to get some grinding done, and the
blame mill machinery broke. They just started grinding an hour
ago."   

So there was a mill, and Bob often had to go to mills for Mr.
Peabody. Betty did not know why he should have to come so far,
but it was quite possible that some whim of the master of Bramble
Farm had sent him to the Laurel Grove mill. Betty stepped up to
the farmer and addressed him quietly.   

"Please, will you tell me where the mill is?" she asked.   

CHAPTER XXII SPREADING THE NET

 HE was a nice, fatherly kind of person, and he insisted on walking
with Betty to the corner and pointing out the low roof of the mill
down a side street. 

 "No water power, just electricity," he explained. "Give me a water
mill, every time; this current stuff is mighty unreliable." 

 Betty thanked him, and hurried down the street. She was sure she
saw the sorrel tied outside the mill, and when she reached the
hitching posts, sure enough, there was the familiar old wagon, with
some filled bags in it, and the drooping, tired old sorrel horse that
had come to meet her when she stepped from the train at Hagar's
Corners. 

 "Betty! For the love of Mike!" Bob's language was expressive, if
not elegant. 

 Betty whirled. She had not seen the boy come down the steps of
the mill office, and she was totally unprepared to hear his voice.
"Why, Bob!" The unmistakable relief and gladness that shone in
her tired face brought a little catch to Bob's throat. 

 To hide it, he spoke gruffly. 

 "What are you doing here? It's after four o'clock, and I'll get Hail
Columbia when I get i back. Mill's been out of order all day, and I
had to wait. Haven't you been to Doctor Guerin's?" 

 "No, not yet." Betty pulled at his sleeve nervously. "Oh, Bob,
there's so much I must tell you! And after ten o'clock it will be too
late. To think he thought I stole his old chickens! And where is
Petria?" 

 Bob gazed at her in amazement. This incoherent stream of words
meant nothing to him. 

 "Petria?" he repeated, catching at a straw. "Why, Petria's a big
city, sort of a center for farm products. All the commission houses
have home offices there. Why?" 

 "That's where Mr. Peabody's chickens are going," Betty informed
him, "unless you can think of a way to stop 'em." 

 "Mr. Peabody's chickens?  Have you got 'em?" asked Bob in
wonder. 

 Betty stamped her foot. 

 "Bob Henderson, how can you be so stupid!" she stormed.  "What
would I be doing with stolen chickens—unless you think I stole
them?" 

 "Now don't go off into a temper," said Bob placidly. "I see where I
have to drive you to Glenside, anyway. Might as well go the whole
show and be half a day late while I'm about it. Hop in, Betty, and
you can tell me this wonderful tale while we're traveling." 

 Betty was tired out from excitement, fear, in- sufficient food and
the long distance she had walked. Her nerves protested loudly, and
to Bob's astonishment and dismay she burst into violent weeping. 

 "Oh, I say!" he felt vainly in his pocket for a handkerchief. "Betty,
don't cry like that! What did I say wrong? Don't you want to go to
Glenside ? What do you want me to do ?" 

 "I want you to listen," sobbed Betty. "I'm trying to tell you as fast
as I can that Wapley and Lieson stole Mr. Peabody's chickens.
They've got 'em all crated, and an automobile truck is coming at
ten o'clock to-night to take them to Petria. So there!" 

 Bob asked a few direct questions that soon put him in possession
of all the facts. When he had heard the full story he took out the
hitching rope he had put under the seat and tied the sorrel to the
railing again. 

 "Come on," he said briefly. 

 "Where—where are we going?" quavered Betty, a little in awe of
this stern new Bob with. the resolute chin. 

 "To the police recorder's," was the uncompromising reply. 

 The recorder was young and possessed of plenty of what Bob
termed "pep," and when he heard what Bob had to tell him, for
Betty was stricken with sudden dumbness, he immediately mapped
out a plan that should catch all the 'wrong-doers in one net. 

 "The fellow we want to get hold of is this truck driver," he
explained. "You didn't hear  his name?" 

 Betty shook her head. 

 "Well, to get him, our men will have to wait till he comes for the
crates," said the recorder. "I'll send a couple of 'em out to this
farm—they know the old D. Smith place well enough—and they can
hang around till the truck comes and then take 'em all in. I'm sorry,
but I'll have to hold the girl here as a witness. My wife will look
after her, and she'll be all right." 

 "I'll stay, too, Betty," Bob promised her hastily, noting the plea in
her eyes. 

 "All right, so much the better," said the recorder heartily. "We'll
put you both up for the night. It won't be necessary for you to see
the prisoners to-night, and to-morrow you'll both be mighty good
witnesses for this Mr. Peabody. I'll send for him in the morning." 

 Bob's sense of humor was tickled at the thought of stabling the
sorrel in a livery stable and charging the bill to his employer. A
vision of what would be said to him caused his eyes to dance as he
gave orders to the stableman to see that the horse had an extra
good measure of oats. 

 But when he came back to the recorder's for supper he found
Betty sitting close beside the recorder's wife, crying as though her
heart would break. 

 "Why, Betty!" he protested.   "You don't usually act like this. What
does ail you—are you sick?" 

 "It isn't fair!" protested Betty passionately. "Wapley and Lieson
worked so hard and Mr. Peabody was mean to 'em! I don't want to
save his old chickens for him! I'd much rather the hired men got
the money. And I won't be a witness for him and get them into
prison!" 

 Bob looked shocked at this outburst, but Mrs. Bender only
continued to soothe the girl, and presently Betty's sobs grew less
violent, and by and by ceased. 

 After supper Mrs. Bender played for them and sang a little, and
then, declaring that Betty looked tired to death, took her upstairs to
the blue and white guest-room, where, after she had helped her to
undress and loaned her one of her own pretty nightgowns, she
turned off the lights and sat beside her till she fell asleep. For the
first time in months, Betty was encouraged to talk about her
mother, and she told this new friend of her great loss, her life with
the Arnolds, and about her Uncle Dick. It both rested and refreshed
her to give this confidence, and her sleep that night was unbroken
and dreamless. 

 Long after Betty was asleep, Bob and the recorder played
checkers, Mrs. Bender sitting near with her sewing. Bob was
starved for companionship, and something about the lad, his eager
eyes, perhaps, or his evident need of interested guidance, appealed
to Recorder Bender. 

 "You say you were born in the poorhouse?" he asked, between
games. "Was your mother born in this township?" 

 Bob explained, and the Benders were both interested in the
mention of the box of papers. Encouraged by friendly auditors,
Bob told his meager story, unfolding in its recital a very fair
picture of conditions as they existed at Bramble Farm. 

 Betty lay in dreamless sleep, but Bob, in a room across the hall,
tossed and turned restlessly. At half-past ten he heard the recorder
go out, and knew he was going to see if the chicken thieves and
motor truck driver had been brought . in by his men. Bob
wondered how it seemed to be arrested, and he fervently resolved
never to court the experience. He was asleep before the recorder
returned, but woke once during the night. A heavy truck was
lumbering through the street, the driver singing in a' high sweet
tenor voice, probably to keep himself awake. Bob's swift thoughts
flew to Wapley and Lieson, and he wondered if they were asleep.
How could they sleep in jail? 

 Breakfast in the Bender household was just as pleasant and
cheerful and unhurried as supper had been. Mrs. Bender in a white
and green morning frock beamed upon Bob and Betty and urged
delicious viands upon them till they begged for mercy. It was, she
said, so nice to have "four at the table." 

 Mr. Bender pushed back his chair at last, glancing at his watch. 

 "The hearing is set for ten o'clock," he announced quietly. "Mr.
Peabody has been notified and should be here any minute. I think
we had better walk down to the office. Catherine, if you're ready—" 

 Mrs. Bender smiled at Betty. She had promised to see her through. 

CHAPTER XXIII IN AMIABLE CONFERENCE

BETTY'S sole idea of a court had been gained from a scene or two
in the once-a-week Pineville motion picture theater, and Bob had
even less knowledge. They both thought there might be a crowd, a
judge in a black gown, and some noise and excitement. 

Instead Recorder Bender unlocked the door of a little one-story
building and ushered them into a small room furnished simply
with a long table, a few chairs, and a case of law books. 

Presently two men came in, nodded to Mrs. Bender, and conferred
in whispers with Mr. Bender. There was a scuffling step outside
the door and Mr. Peabody entered. 

"Huh, there you are!" he greeted Bob. "For all of you, I might have
been hunting my horse and wagon all night. Mighty afraid to let
any one know where you are." 

"Mr. Peabody?" asked the recorder crisply, and suddenly all his
quiet friendliness was gone and an able official with a clear, direct
gaze and a rather stern chin faced the farmer. "Sit down, please,
until we're all ready." 

Mr. Peabody subsided into a chair, and the two men went away.
They were back in a few moments, and with them they brought
Wapley and Lieson and a lad, little more than a boy, who was
evidently the truck driver. 

"Close the door," directed the recorder. 

"Now, Mr. Peabody, if you'll just sit here—" he indicated a chair at
one side of the table. With a clever shifting of the group he soon
had them arranged so that Wapley, Lieson, the truck driver, and
the two men who had brought them in were sitting on one side of
the table, and Betty, Bob, Mrs. Bender and Mr. Peabody on the
other. He himself took a seat between Betty and Mr. Peabody. 

"Now you all understand," he said pleasantly, "that this is merely
an informal hearing. We want to learn what both sides have to
say." 

Mr. Peabody gave a short laugh. 

"I don't see what the other side can have to say!" he exclaimed
contemptuously.  "They've been caught red-handed, stealing my
chickens." 

The recorder ignored this, and turned to Lieson. 

"You've worked for farmers about here in other seasons," he said.
"And, from all I can hear, your record was all right. What made
you put yourself in line for a workhouse term?" Lieson cleared his
throat, glancing at Wapley. "It can't be proved we was stealing," he
argued sullenly. "Them chickens was going to be sold on
commission." 

"Taking 'em off at ten o'clock at night to save 'em from sunburn,
wasn't you?" demanded Mr. Peabody sarcastically. "You never was
a quick thinker, Lieson." 

"Now, Lieson," struck in Mr. Bender patiently, "that's no sort of
use. Miss Gordon here overheard your plans. We know those
chickens came from the Peabody farm, and that you and Wapley
had a bargain with Tubbs to sell them in Petria. What I want to
hear is your excuse. It's been my experience that every one who
takes what doesn't belong to him has an excuse, good or bad.
What's yours?" 

At the mention of Betty's name, Lieson and Wapley had shot her a
quick look. She made a little gesture of helplessness, infinitely
appealing. 

"I'm so sorry," the expressive brown eyes told them. "I just have to
tell what I heard, if I'm asked, but I wouldn't willingly do you
harm." 

Lieson threw back his head and struck the table a rounding blow. 

I'll tell you why we took those blamed chickens!" he cried. "You
can believe it or not, but we were going to sell 'em in Petria, and
all over and above twenty-five dollars they brought, Peabody
would have got back. He owes us that amount. Ask him." 

"It's a lie!" shouted Peabody, rising, his face crimson. "A lie, I tell
you! A lie cooked up by a sneaking, crooked, chicken-thief to save
him- self!" 

Lieson and Wapley were on their feet, and Betty saw the glint of
something shiny in Peabody's hand. 

"Sit down, and keep quiet!" said the recorder levelly. "That will be
about all the shouting, please, this morning. And, Mr. Peabody, I'll
trouble you for that automatic!" 

The men dropped into their chairs, and Pea- body pushed his pistol
across the table. The recorder opened a drawer and dropped the
evil little thing into it. 

"Can you prove that wages are owed you by Mr. Peabody?" he
asked, as if nothing had happened. 

Wapley, who had been silent all along, pulled a dirty scrap of
paper from his pocket. 

"There's when we came to Bramble Farm and when we left, and
the money we've had," he said harshly. "And when we left, it was
'cause he wouldn't give us what was coming to us—not just a dollar
or two of it to spend in Glenside. Miss Betty can tell you that." 

"Yes," said Betty eagerly. "That was what they quarreled about." 

The recorder, who had been studying the bit of paper, asked a
question without raising his eyes. 

"What's this thirty-four cents subtracted from this two dollars
for—June twenty-fourth, it seems to be?" 

"Oh, that was when we had the machinist who came to fix the
binder stay to supper," explained Wapley simply. "Lieson and me
paid Peabody for butter on the table that night, 'cause Edge-
worth's mighty particular about what he gets to eat. He'd come ten
miles to fix the machine, and <I>we</I> wanted him to have a
good meal." 

Mr. Peabody turned a vivid scarlet. He did not relish these
disclosures of his domestic economy. 

"What in tarnation has that got to do with stealing my chickens?"
he demanded testily. "Ain't you going to commit these varmints?" 

The truck driver, who had been studying Mr. Peabody with
disconcerting steadiness, suddenly announced the result of his
scrutiny, apparently not in the last in awe of the jail sentence
shadow under which he stood. 

"Well, you poor, little, mean-livered, low-down, pesky, slithering
snake-in-the-grass," he said slowly and distinctly, addressing
himself to Mr. Peabody with unflattering directness, "now I know
where I've seen your homely mug before. You're the skunk that
scattered ground glass on that stretch of road between the
crossroads and Miller's Pond, and then laughed when I ruined four
of my good tires. I knew I'd seen you some- where, but I couldn't
place you. 

"Why, do .you know, Mr. Bender," he turned excitedly to the
recorder, "that low-down coward wouldn't put ground glass on his
own road— might get him into trouble with the authorities. No, he
goes and scatters the stuff on some other farmer's highway, and
when I lodge a complaint against the man whose name was on the
mail box and face him in Glenside, he isn't the man I saw laughing
at all! I made a complete fool of myself. I suppose this guy had a
grudge against some neighbor and took that way of paying it out;
and getting some motorist in Dutch, too. These rubes hates
automobiles, anyway." 

"It's a lie!" retorted Mr. Peabody, but his tone did not carry
conviction. "I never scattered any ground glass." 

The recorder fluttered a batch of papers impressively. 

"Well, I've two complaints that may be filed against you," he
announced decisively. "One for uncollected wages due James
Wapley and Enos Lieson, and one charging that you willfully made
a public highway dangerous for automobile traffic. Also, I believe,
this boy, Bob Henderson, has not been sent to school regularly." 

This was a surprise to Bob, who had long ago accepted the fact
that school for him was over. But Mr. Peabody was plainly
worried. 

"What you want me to do?" he whined. "I'm willing to be fair. No
man can say I'm not just." 

The recorder leaned back in his chair, and his good wife, watching,
knew that he had gained his point. 

. "Litigation and law-squabble," he said tranquilly, "waste money,
time, and too often defeat the ends. Why, in this instance, don't we
effect a compromise? You, Mr. Peabody, pay these men the money
you owe them and drop the charge of stealing; you will have your
chickens back and the knowledge that their enmity toward you is
removed. Tubbs, I'm sure, will agree to forget the broken glass,
and the schooling charge may lapse, provided something along that
line is done for Bob this winter." 

Mr. Peabody was shrewd enough to see that he could not hope for
better terms. As long as he had the chickens to sell to Ryerson, he
had no grounds for complaint. He hated "like sin" as Bob said, to
pay the money to Wapley and Lieson, but under the recorder's
unwavering eye, he counted out twenty-five dollars—twelve dollars
and fifty cents apiece—which the men pocketed smilingly. A word
or two of friendly admonition from Mr. Bender, and the men were
dismissed. 

"I'm so glad," sighed Betty as they left the room, "that I didn't have
to say anything against them." 

"Well, are you coming along with me?" asked Peabody, almost
graciously for him. "There's a letter there for you, Betty. From your
uncle, I  calculate, since the postmark is Washington. And my
word, Bob, you don't seem in any great hurry to get back to your
chores; the sorrel must be eating his head off in Haverford's
stable." 

The recorder exchanged a look with his wife. 

"Mr. Peabody," he said, "I shall be detained here an hour or so, and
I don't want these young folks to leave until I have a word with
them. Mrs. Bender will be only too glad to have you stay for lunch
with us, and I'll meet you up at the house. My wife, Mr. Peabody." 

"Pleased to meet you, Ma'am," stammered Mr. Peabody
awkwardly. "I ought to be getting on toward home. But I suppose,
if the chickens were fed this morning, they can wait." 

"I'm sure you're hungry yourself," answered Mrs. Bender, slipping
an arm about Betty. "Suppose we walk up to the house now, Mr.
Peabody, and I'll have lunch ready by the time Mr. Bender is free." 

Betty looked back as they were leaving the room and saw the truck
driver slouched disconsolately in a chair opposite the recorder. 

"Is—is he arrested?" she whispered half-fearfully to Mrs. Bender.
Mr. Peabody and Bob were walking on ahead. 

"No, dear," was the answer. "But Mr. Bender will doubtless give
him a good raking over the coals, which is just what he needs. Fred
Tubbs is a Laurel Grove boy, and his mother is one of the sweetest
women in town. He's always been a little wild, and lately he's been
in with all kinds of riff-raff. Harry heard rumors that he was
trucking in shady transactions, but he never could get hold of
proof. Now he has him just where he wants him. He'll tell Fred a
few truths and maybe knock some sense into him before he does
something that will send him to state's prison." 

CHAPTER XXIV A NEW ACQUAINTANCE 

MRS. BENDER insisted that Mr. Peabody should sit down on her
shady front porch while she set the table and got luncheon. Betty
followed her like a shadow, and while they were laying the silver
together the woman smiled at the downcast face. 

"What is it, dear?" she asked gently. "You don't want to go back to
Bramble Farm; is that it?" 

Betty nodded miserably. 

"Why do I have to?" she argued. "Can't I go and stay with the
Guerins? They'd like to have me, I'm sure they would." 

"Well, we'll see what Mr. Bender has to say," answered Mrs.
Bender diplomatically. "Here he comes now. You call Bob and
Mr. Peabody, and mind, not a word while we're at the table. Mr.
Bender hates to have an argument while he's eating." 

The luncheon was delicious, and Mr. Peabody thoroughly enjoyed
it, if the service was rather confusing. He thought the Benders
were very foolish to live as they did instead of saving up money for
their old age, but since they did, he was glad they did not retrench
when they had company. That, by the way, was Mr. Peabody's
original conception of hospitality—to save on his guests by serving
smaller portions of food. 

"We'll go into the living-room and have a little talk now," proposed
the recorder, leading the way into the pleasant front room where a
big divan fairly invited three to sit upon it. 

"Betty and Bob on either side of me," said Mr. Bender cordially,
pointing to the sofa, "and, Mr. Peabody, just roll up that big chair." 

Mrs. Bender sat down in a rocking chair, and the recorder seated
himself between the two young folks. 

"Betty doesn't want to come back with me," said Mr. Peabody
resentfully. "I can tell by the way she acts. But her uncle sent her
up to us, and there she should stay, I say, till he sends for her
again. It doesn't look right for a girl to be gallivanting all over the
township," 

"I could stay with the Guerins," declared Betty stubbornly. "Mrs.
Guerin is lovely to me." 

"I should think you'd have a little pride about asking 'em to take
you in, when they've got two daughters of their own and he as hard
up as most country doctors are," said the astute Mr. Peabody.
"Your uncle pays me for your board and I certainly don't intend to
turn over any checks to Doc Guerin." 

Betty flushed. She had not thought at all about the monetary side
of the question. She knew that Doctor Guerin's practice was
largely among the farmers, who paid him in produce as often as in
cash, and, as Mr. Peabody said, he could not be expected to take a
guest for an indefinite time. 

"You know you could stay with me, Betty," Mrs. Bender broke in
quickly, "but we're going away for a month next week, and there
isn't time to change the plans. Mr. Bender has his vacation." 

"Gee, Betty," came from Bob, "if you're not coming back, what'll I
do?" 

"Work," said Mr. Peabody grimly. 

Betty's quick temper flared up suddenly. 

"I won't go back!" she declared passionately. "I'll do housework, I'll
scrub or wash dishes, anything! I hate Bramble Farm!" 

"Now, now, sister," said the recorder in his even, pleasant voice.
"Keep cool, and we'll find a way. There's this letter Mr. Peabody
speaks about. Perhaps that will bring you good news." 

"I suppose it's from Uncle Dick," admitted Betty, wiping her eyes.
"Maybe he will want me to come where he is." 

"Well now, Betty," Mr. Peabody spoke persuasively, "you come
along home with me and maybe things will be more to your liking.
Perhaps I haven't always done just as you'd like. But then, you
recollect, I ain't used to girls and their notions. Your uncle won't
think you're fit to be trusted to travel alone if I write him and tell
him you run away from the farm." 

Betty looked dumbly at Mr. Bender. 

"I think you had better go with Mr. Peabody," he said kindly,
answering her unspoken question. "You see, Betty, it isn't very
easy to explain, but when you want to leave a place, any place,
always go openly and as far as possible avoid the significance of
running away. You do not have to stay for one moment where any
one is actively unkind to you, but since your uncle placed you in
the care of Mr. and Mrs. Peabody, if you can, it is wiser to wait till
you hear from him before making any change." 

"Make him be nicer to Bob," urged Betty obstinately. 

"I aim to send him to school this winter," said Mr. Peabody,
rushing to his own defense. "And I can get a man now to help out
with the chores. He's lame, but a good milker. Can get him right
away, too— this afternoon. Came by asking for work and I guess
he'll stay all winter. Bob can take it easy for a day or two." 

"Then he can drive over with Betty Saturday afternoon and spend
Sunday with us." Mrs. Bender was quick to seize this advantage.
"That will be fine. We'll see you, Betty, before we go away. And,
dear, you must write to me often." 

So it was settled that Betty was to return to Bramble Farm. The
Benders were warmly interested in both young folks, and they
were not the sort of people to lose sight of any one for whom they
cared. Mr. Peabody knew that Bob and Betty had gained friends
who would be actively concerned for their welfare, and he was
entirely sincere in promising to make it easier for them in the
future. 

He and Bob and Betty and the crated chickens drove into the lane
leading to Bramble Farm about half-past four. 

Betty's first thought was for her letter. The moment she saw the
hand-writing, she knew it was from her uncle. 

"Bob, Bob! Where are you?" she called, running out to the barn,
waving the letter wildly after the first reading. "Oh, Bob, why
aren't you ever where I want you?" 

Mr. Peabody and his wife were still busy over the chickens. 

Bob, it seemed, was engaged in the unlovely task of cleaning the
cow stables, after having, on Mr. Peabody's orders, gone after the
lame man to engage him for the fall and winter work. But Betty
was so eager to share her news with him that she stood just outside
the stable and read him bits of the letter through the open window. 

"Uncle Dick's in Washington!" she announced blithely. "He's been
there a week, and he hopes he can send for me before the month is
up. Won't that be fine, Bob? I'm not going to unpack my trunk,
because I want to be able to go the minute he sends me word. And,
oh, yes, he sends me an- other check. Now we can have some more
goodies from the grocery store, next time you go to Glenside." 

"You cash that check and put the money away where you and no
one else can find it," advised Bob seriously. "Don't let yourself get
out of funds again, Betty. It may be another long wait before you
hear from your uncle." 

"Oh, no, that won't happen again," said Betty carelessly. "He's in
Washington, so everything must be all right. But, Bob, isn't it
funny? he hasn't had one of my letters! He says he supposes there's
a pile of mail for him at the lawyer's office, but he hasn't had time
to run up there,  and, anyway, the lawyer is ill and his office is in
great confusion. Uncle Dick writes he is glad to think of me
enjoying the delights of Bramble Farm instead of the city's
heat—Washington is hot in summer, I know daddy used to say so.
And he sends the kindest messages to Mr. and Mrs. Peabody—I
wish he knew that old miser! 

I've written him all about you, but of course he hasn't read the
letters." 

All through supper and the brief evening that followed Betty was
light-hearted and gay.  She re-read her Uncle Dick's letter twenty
times, and because of the relief it promised her found it easy to be
gracious to Mr. Peabody. That man was put out because his new
hired hand refused to sleep in the attic, declaring that the barn was
cooler, as in fact it was. 

"If  I catch you smoking in there, I'll wring your neck," was the
farmer's amiable good-night to the lame man as he limped out
toward his selected sleeping place. 

CHAPTER XXV  THEIR MUTUAL SECRETS 

BETTY woke to find her room almost as light as day. She had
been dreaming of breakfasting with her uncle in a blue and gold
dining-room of her own furnishing, and for the moment she
thought it was morning. But the light flickered too much for
sunlight, and as she became more fully awake, she realized it was
a red glare. Fire! 

"Fire!"  Bob's voice vocalized her cry for her, and he came
tumbling down the uncarpeted attic stairs with a wild clatter of
shoes. 

She called to him to wait; but he did not hear, and raced on out to
the barn. The inarticulate bellow of Mr. Peabody sounded next as,
yelling loudly, he rushed down the stairs and out through the
kitchen. 

"Betty!" Mrs. Peabody ran in as Betty struggled hastily to dress.
"Betty! the barn's on fire! No one knows how long it's been
burning. If we only had a dog, he might have barked! Or a
telephone!" 

Betty stifled a hysterical desire to laugh as she followed the
moaning Mrs. Peabody downstairs. It was not the main barn, she
saw with a little throb of relief as they ran through the yard.
Instead it was the corncrib and wagon house which stood a little
apart from the rest of the buildings. The cribs were practically
empty of corn, for of course the new crop had not yet matured, and
the only loss would be the two shabby old wagons and a quantity
of more or less worn machinery stored in the loft overhead. A huge
rat, driven from his home under the corncrib, ran past Betty in the
dark. 

"It's all insured," said Mr. Peabody complacently, watching Bob
dash buckets of water on the tool shed, which was beginning to
blister from the heat. "Well, Keppler, see the blaze from your
place? Nice little bonfire, ain't it?" 

Mr. Keppler and his two half-grown sons had run all the way and
were too out of breath to reply immediately. They were not on
especially good terms with Mr. Peabody, but as his nearest
neighbor they could not let his buildings burn down without
making an effort to help him. They had left the mother of the
family at the telephone with instructions to call the surrounding
neighbors if Mr. Keppler signaled her to do so with the pistol he
carried. 

"Guess you won't need any more help," said Mr. Keppler,
regaining his breath. "How'd she start?" 

"Why, when I thought it was the barn, I said to myself that lazy
good-for-nothing lame Phil's been smoking," replied Mr. Peabody.
"But I don't know how he could set the corncribs afire." 

"Where is he now?" cried Betty, remembering the man's affliction.
"He couldn't run—perhaps he tried to sleep in the wagon and is
burned." 

"No, he isn't," said Phil behind her. 

He had been watching the fire from the safe vantage point of a
boulder in the apple orchard, he admitted when cross-questioned. 
Yes, the flames had awakened him in the barn where he slept. No,
he couldn't guess how they had started unless it could have been
spontaneous combustion from the oiled rags he had noticed packed
tightly in a corner of the wagon shed that afternoon. 

"Spontaneous combustion!" ejaculated Mr. Peabody angrily. "If
you know that much, why couldn't you drop me a word, or take
away the rags?" 

The lame man looked at him with irritating intentness. 

"I thought you might wring my neck if I did," he said. 

"I don't know whether Phil's a fool or not," confided Bob to Betty
the next morning; "but he has old Peabody guessing, that's sure. He
was quoting Shakespeare to him at the pump this morning." 

Betty lost little time in speculation concerning Phil, for another
worry claimed her attention. 

"How can we go to see the Benders Saturday?" she asked Bob.
"Both wagons are burned up." 

"Well, we still have the horse," Bob reminded her cheerfully. "A
wagon without a horse isn't much good, but a horse without a
wagon is far from hopeless. You leave it to me." 

Betty was willing. She was dreaming day dreams about
Washington and Uncle Dick, dreams in which she generously
included Bob and the Benders and Norma Guerin. It was fortunate
for her that she could not see ahead, or know how slowly the
weeks were to drag by without another letter. How Betty waited
and waited and finally went to the Capitol City to find her uncle
herself will be told in the next volume of this series, to be called,
"Betty Gordon in Washington; or, Strange Adventures in a Great
City." High-spirited, headstrong, pretty Betty finds adventures
aplenty, not unmixed with a spice of danger, in the beautiful city
of Washington, and quite unexpectedly she again meets Bob
Henderson, who has left Bramble Farm to seek his fortune. 

That Bob was planning a surprise in connection with their visit to
the Benders, she was well aware, but she would not spoil his
enjoyment by trying to force him to divulge his secret. Betty had a
secret of her own, saved up for the eventful day, which she had no
idea of disclosing till the proper time should arrive. 

Saturday morning dawned warm and fair, and Bob tore into his
morning's work, determined to leave Mr. Peabody no loophole for
criticism and, possibly, detention, though he had promised Bob the
afternoon off. Phil was with them no more, having ambled off one
night without warning and taken his peculiarities to a possibly
more appreciative circle. 

Bob was hungry at noon, but he hardly touched his dinner, so eager
was he to get away from the table and wash and dress ready for the
trip to Laurel Grove. Poor Bob had no best clothes, but he
resolutely refused to wear overalls to the Benders, and he had
coaxed Mrs. Peabody to get his heavy winter trousers out of the
mothballs and newspapers in which she had packed them away.
She had washed and ironed a faded shirt for him, and at least he
would be whole and clean. 

"Bob," drawled Mr. Peabody, as that youth declined dessert and
prepared to rise from the table, "before you go, I want to see the
wood box filled, some fresh litter in the pig pens and some fodder
in all the cow mangers. If I'm to do the milking, I don't want to
have to pitch all the fodder, too." 

Bob scowled angrily. 

"I haven't time," he muttered. "That'll take me till two or half-past.
You said I could have the afternoon." 

"And I also told you to fill the wood box yesterday," retorted Mr.
Peabody. "You'll do as I say, or stay home altogether. Take your
choice." 

"He's the meanest man who ever lived!" scolded Betty, following
Bob out to the woodshed. "I'll fill up that old box, Bob, and you go
do the other chores. I'd like to throw this stick at his head." 

Bob laughed, for he had a naturally sweet temper and seldom
brooded over his wrongs. 

"He did tell me to fill the box yesterday and I forgot," he
confessed. "Take your time, Betty, and don't get all hot. And don't
scratch your hands—they looked as pretty as Mrs. Bender's; I
noticed 'em at the table." 

Betty stared after him as he went whistling to the barn, her apron
sagging with the wood she had piled into it. She glanced
scrutinizingly at her strong, shapely tanned little hands. Did Bob
think they were pretty? Betty herself admired very white hands
with slim pointed fingers like Norma Guerin's. 

She worked to such good purpose that she had the wood box filled
and was brushing her hair when she heard Bob go thumping past
her door on his way to his room. She was dressed and downstairs
when he came down, and he caught hold of her impulsively and
whirled her around the porch. 

"Betty, you're a wonder I" he cried in admiration. "How did you
ever guess the size? And when did you buy it ? You could have
knocked me down with a feather when I saw it spread out there on
the bed." 

"I'm glad it fits you so well," answered Betty demurely, surveying
the neat blue and white shirt she had bought for him. "I took one of
your old ones over to Glenside. Oh, it didn't cost much!" she
hastened to assure him, interpreting the look he gave her. "I'm
saving the money Uncle Dick sent, honestly I am." 

Bob insisted that she sit down on the porch and let him drive round
for her, and now it was Betty's turn to be surprised. The sorrel was
harnessed to a smart rubber-tired runabout. 

"Bob Henderson! where did you get it? Whose is it? Does Mr.
Peabody know? Let's go through Glenside and show 'em we look
right sometimes," suggested the astonished Betty. 

Bob, beaming with pride, helped her in and Mrs. Peabody waved
them a friendly good-bye. She betrayed no surprise at the sight of
the run-about and was evidently in the secret. 

"She knows about it," explained Bob, as they drove off. "I
borrowed it from the Kepplers. Tried to get a horse, too, but they're
going driving Sunday and need the team. This is their single
harness. Nifty buckles, aren't they?" 

Betty praised the runabout to his heart's content, and they actually
did drive through Glenside, though it was a longer way around,
and had the satisfaction of meeting the Guerins. 

Recorder Bender and his wife were delighted to see them again,
and they had a happy time all planned for them. Saturday night
there was a moving picture show in Laurel Grove, and the Benders
took their guests. Betty had not been to motion pictures since
leaving Pineville and it was Bob's second experience with the
films. 

Sunday morning they all went to church, and the long, delightful
summer Sunday afternoon they spent on the cool, shady porch,
exchanging confidences and making plans for the future. 

"I'm saving the money I get for the carvings," said Bob, "and when
I get enough I'll dig up the little black tin box and off I'll go. I've
got to get some education and amount to something, and if I stay
with the Peabody's till I'm eighteen, my chance will be gone." 

"Promise us one thing, Bob," urged Mrs. Bender earnestly. "That
you won't go without consulting us, or at least leaving some word
for us. And that, wherever you go, you'll write." 

"I promise," said Bob gratefully. "I haven't so many friends that I
can afford to lose one. You and Mr. Bender have been awfully
good to me." 

"We like you!" returned the recorder, with one of his rare
whimsical flashes. "I want to exact the same promise from
Betty—to write to us wherever she may go." 

"Of course I will!" promised Betty. "I don't seem to have much
luck running away; but when I do go, I'll surely write and let you
know where I am. And I'll probably be writing to you very soon
from Washington!" 


THE END