Part 13 (2/2)

”It's too cold to talk with this window open. You're a neighbor, aren't you?”

The girl nodded.

”Then come in,” urged Nan. ”I'm sure my aunt will let you.”

The girl shook her head in a decided negative to this proposal. ”Don't want Marm Sherwood to see me,” she said.

”Why not?”

”She told me not to come over after you come 'ithout I put on my new dress and washed my hands and face.”

”Well!” exclaimed Nan, looking at her more closely. ”You seem to have a clean face, at least.”

”Yes. But that dress she 'gin me, my brother Bob took and put on Old Beagle for to dress him up funny. And Beagle heard a noise he thought was a fox barking and he started for the tamarack swamp, lickety-split.

I expect there ain't enough of that gingham left to tie around a sore thumb.”

Nan listened to this in both amus.e.m.e.nt and surprise. The girl was a new specimen to her.

”Come in, anyway,” she urged. ”I can't keep the window open.”

”I'll climb in, then,” declared the other suddenly, and, suiting the action to the word, she swarmed over the sill; but she left one huge boot in the snow, and Nan, laughing delightedly, ran for the poker to fish for it, and drew it in and shut down the window.

The strange girl was warming her hands at the fire. Nan pushed a chair toward her and took one herself, but not the complaining spring rocking chair.

”Now tell me all about yourself,” the girl demanded.

”I'm Nan Sherwood, and I've come here to Pine Camp to stay while my father and mother have gone to Scotland.”

”I've heard about Scotland,” declared the girl with the very prominent eyes.

”Have you?”

”Yes. Gran'ther Llewellen sings that song. You know:

”'Scotland's burning! Scotland's burning! Where, where? Where, where?

Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire! Pour on water! Pour on water! Fire's out! Fire's out!'”

Nan laughed. ”I've heard that, too,” she said. ”But it was another Scotland.” Then: ”So your name is Llewellen?”

”Marg'ret Llewellen.”

”I've heard your grandfather is sick,” said Nan, remembering Tom's report of the health of the community when he had met her and her uncle at Hobart Forks.

”Yes. He's got the tic-del-rew,” declared Margaret, rather unfeelingly.

”Aunt Matildy says he's allus creakin' round like a rusty gate-hinge.”

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