Part 6 (1/2)

”You ain't so keen on dividin' up, eh?”

”Oh, it isn't that,” returned Lucy quickly. ”I was only thinking what a lot you had to do. No wonder you sent for me.”

It was a random remark, but it struck Ellen's conscience with such aplomb that she flushed, dismayed.

”What do you mean?” she faltered.

As Lucy looked at her aunt, she observed the s.h.i.+fting glance, the crafty smile, the nervous interlacing of the fingers.

”Mean?” she returned innocently. ”Why, nothing, Aunt Ellen. We must all work for a living one way or another, I suppose. If I prefer to stay here with you and earn my board there is no disgrace in it, is there?”

”No.”

Nevertheless Ellen was obviously disconcerted. There was an uncanny quality in Lucy that left her with a sense that every hiding place in her heart was laid bare. Were the girl's ingenuous observations as ingenuous as they seemed? Or were they the result of an abnormal intuition, a superhuman power for fathoming the souls of others?

Eager to escape the youthful seer, the woman pushed back her chair and rose.

”I must go out an' see what that boy Tony's up to,” she said. ”While I'm gone you might tidy up round here a bit. There's the dishes an' the beds; an' in the pantry you'll find the eggs with the cases to pack 'em in. An'

if you get round to it you might sweep up the sittin' room.”

”All right.”

Drawing on a worn coat Ellen moved toward the door; when, however, her hand was on the k.n.o.b, she turned and called over her shoulder:

”The was.h.i.+n's soakin' in the tubs in the shed. You can hang it out if you like.”

Lucy waited until she saw the angular figure wend its way to the barn.

Then she broke into a laugh.

”The old fox! She did get me here to work for her,” she murmured aloud.

”Anyway, I don't have to stay unless I like; and I shan't, either. So, Aunt Ellen Webster, you'd better be careful how you treat me.”

With a defiant shake of her miniature fist in the direction her aunt had taken, Lucy turned to attack the duties before her. She washed the dishes and put them away; tripped upstairs and kneaded the billowy feather beds into smoothness; and humming happily, she swept and polished the house until it shone. She did such things well and delighted in the miracles her small hands wrought.

”Now for the eggs!” she exclaimed, opening the pantry door.

Yes, there were the empty cases, and there on the shelf were the eggs that waited to be packed,--dozens of them. It seemed at first glance as if there must be thousands.

”And she wouldn't let me have one!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the girl. ”Well, I don't want them. But I'm going to have an egg for breakfast whether she likes it or not. I'll buy some. Then I can eat them without thanks to her. I have a little money, and I may as well spend part of it that way as not. I suppose it will annoy her; but I can't help it. I'm not going to starve to death.”

During this half-humorous, half-angry soliloquy, Lucy was packing the eggs for market, packing them with extreme care.

”I'd love to smash them all,” she declared, dimpling. ”Wouldn't it be fun!

But I won't. I'll not break one if I can help it.”

The deft fingers successfully carried out this resolution. When Ellen returned from the garden at noontime, not only was the housework done, but the eggs were in the cases; the clothes swaying on the line; and the dinner steaming on the table. She was in high good humor.

”I forgot to ask you what you had planned for us to have this noon,”

explained Lucy. ”So I had to rummage through the refrigerator and use my own judgment.”