Louisa knitted on composedly. “Can’t always have luck,” she remarked.
Bud stumped off to find Christine, and Ira sat down on a stump near to where Louisa had taken her place on the step. “Cy Sparks was makin’ all sorts of inquiries about you the other day,” he said.
“Was he?” Louisa’s hands trembled and she dropped a stitch.
“Yes, and you said your dad’s name was Cy Sparks, too.”
“So it was.”
“Names runs in families sometimes. Shouldn’t wonder if you’d find out he’s kin of yours. He’s a queer old dick, Cy is. Folks look at him suspicious and think he’s up to all sorts of tricks, but nobody ain’t caught him yet, so I say a good bit of it’s talk. Must have something to talk about, ye know. Where’s Blythe?”
Louisa jerked her head in the direction of the garden where Alison stood talking to the young man. “She don’t appear to see you.”
“Humph! that ain’t surprisin’. He’s studyin’ law. Nice boy, but he’s awful young.”
“Alison ain’t a Methusalem,” returned Louisa.
“No, she ain’t. Young things jest natchelly like to flock together when spring comes. What ye makin’, Louisa?”