“But what’s that old house there?” demanded Doris, pointing to an ancient, tumbledown structure not far away. “And isn’t it the queerest-looking place, one part so gone to pieces and unkempt, and that other little wing all nicely fixed up and neat and comfortable!”
It was indeed an odd combination. The structure was a large old-fashioned farmhouse, evidently of a period dating well back in the nineteenth century. The main part had fallen into disuse, as was quite evident from the closed and shuttered windows, the peeling, blistered paint, the unkempt air of being not inhabited. But a tiny “L” at one side bore an aspect as different from the main building as could well be imagined. It had lately received a coat of fresh white paint. Its windows were wide open and daintily curtained with some pretty but inexpensive material. The little patch of flower-garden in front was as trim and orderly.
“I don’t understand it,” went on Doris. “What place is it?”
“Oh, that’s only Roundtree’s,” answered Sally indifferently. “That’s old Miss Roundtree now, coming from the back. She lives there all alone.”
As she was speaking, the person in question came into view from around the back of the house, a basket of vegetables in her hand. Plainly she had just been picking them in the vegetable-garden, a portion of which was visible at the side of the house. She sat down presently on her tiny front porch, removed her large sun-bonnet and began to sort them over. From their vantage-point behind some tall bushes at the roadside, the girls could watch her unobserved.
“I like her looks,” whispered Doris after a moment. “Who is she and why does she live in this queer little place?”
“I told you her name was Roundtree,—Miss Camilla Roundtree,” replied Sally. “Most folks call her ‘old Miss Camilla’ around here. She’s awfully poor, though they say her folks were quite rich at one time, and she’s quite deaf too. That big old place was her father’s, and I s’pose is hers now, but she can’t afford to keep it up, she has so little money. So she just lives in that small part, and she knits for a living,—caps and sweaters and things like that. She does knit beautifully and gets quite a good many orders, especially in summer, but even so it hardly brings her in enough to live on. She’s kind of queer too, folks think. But I don’t see why you’re so interested in her.”
“I like her looks,” answered Doris. “She has a fine face. Somehow she seems to me like a lady,—a real lady!”
“Well, she sort of puts on airs, folks think, and she doesn’t care to associate with everybody,” admitted Sally. “But she’s awfully good and kind, too. Goes and nurses people when they’re sick or have any trouble, and never charges for it, and all that sort of thing. But, same time, she always seems to want to be by herself. She reads lots, too, and has no end of old books. They say they were her father’s. Once she lent me one or two when I went to get her to make a sweater for Genevieve.”
“Oh, do you know her?” cried Doris. “How interesting!”