Six months ago she had left it. How queer to be divided up in this way. She had felt lonely at Wetherill House, and missed her mother sadly. To be sure it was winter, and here on the farm it was glowing, golden summer. She had not known the dreariness of a long winter here. There were so many enchanting things, so much life and joy and beauty. In a vague way it thrilled her, even if she did not understand. There were rambles in the lanes, and the orchard where she could climb trees; there was luscious fruit in which she was never stinted. Rides behind Cousin Andrew on Jack, and going to market, as a rare treat, with Uncle James, learning to spin on the little wheel, stealing away to the old garret and reading some forgotten, time-stained books that she dared not ask about. Sometimes she had a misgiving of conscience, but no one ever inquired about them, or what she did up there.
Andrew came out and took a seat under the old apple tree. She ran down to him.
"Andrew, why must I go to Aunt Wetherill's every six months?" she asked.
He glanced at her in a slow, irresolute fashion.
"I must go again next week. It is like a ball being tossed back and forth. I—I didn't quite like it. I would rather stay here."
"I'm glad of that." He passed his arm around her and gave her a gentle hug.
"But why must I go?" impatiently.
"It was thy mother's will. Madam Wetherill was her dearest cousin, like a mother to her. Thou art too young to understand."
"But my mother is dead this long while." There was a sound of perplexity in the youthful voice.
"Yes. It is hard to explain to thee, and a child should not be thinking of money. Thy father appointed mine guardian of thee. Then the Wardours, thy mother's people, left her some fortune, and as thy father was dead she made her will as she pleased."