Fran

Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team.
Fran knocked at the front door. It was too dark for her to find the bell; however, had she found it, she would have knocked just the same.
At first, no one answered. That was not surprising, since everybody was supposed to be at the Union Camp-meeting that had been advertised for the last two months. Of course it was not beyond possibility that some one might have stayed at home to invite his soul instead of getting it saved; but that any one in Littleburg should go visiting at half-past eight, and especially that any one should come knocking at the door of this particular house, was almost incredible. No doubt that is why the young woman who finally opened the door— after Fran had subjected it to a second and more prolonged visitation of her small fist—looked at the stranger with surprise which was, in itself, reproof. Standing in the dim light that reached the porch from the hall, Fran's appearance was not above suspicion. She looked very dark, sharp-faced, and small. Her attitude suggested one who wanted something and had come to ask for it. The lady in the doorway believed herself confronted by a camper —one of those flitting birds of outer darkness who have no religion of their own, but who are always putting that of others to the proof.
The voice from the doorway was cool, impersonal, as if, by its very aloofness, it would push the wanderer away: What do you want?
I want Hamilton Gregory, Fran answered promptly, without the slightest trace of embarrassment. I'm told he lives here.
Mr. Gregory —offering the name with its title as a palpable rebuke— lives here, but is not at home. What do you want, little girl?
Where is he? Fran asked, undaunted.
At first the young woman was tempted to close the door upon the impudent gaze that never faltered in watching her, but those bright unwavering eyes, gleaming out of the gloom of straw hat and overshadowing hair, compelled recognition of some sort.