“But it must have been the same; Joey Trip said so, and he ought to know, seeing that Mr. Brunsen had been treating him to lemonade every night for weeks past,” Nell answered. But there was a wistful look in her eyes, which showed how gladly she would submit to being worsted in her theories concerning the identity of the man who had remembered her so kindly.
“Joey Trip is stupid as an owl. Most likely he would say that his fire-eating Dick Brunsen was a saint, if you asked him; but reasonable folks would know better. Now, look at these books. Here’s ‘The Pilgrim’s Progress,’ ‘Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier,’ ‘Essays on Chaucer,’ and ‘The Imitation of Christ.’ Are they the sort of books a man would choose as a present for a girl if he were of the sort that we know this Dick Brunsen is?”
“Joey Trip said it was the same; and oh, Mrs. Nichols, if it isn’t, I’ve sent the money to the wrong man!” exclaimed Nell, starting up in great dismay.
“That is just about what you have done, I expect,” replied the stout woman, with an air of gloomy triumph.
CHAPTER XXIII
Honouring the Heroine
A FORTNIGHT slipped past, during which Nell’s injuries mended slowly, though her general health was anything but satisfactory; for the shock and strain of her adventure at Camp’s Gulch proved too much for even her intrepid spirit.
Gertrude had been gone a week. Nell had received one brief letter in which Gertrude said she was sending in her resignation, for they could not do without her at home now.
A fresh operator had been installed at Bratley—a girl who gave herself superior airs because of her city up-bringing, and who drove Mrs. Nichols nearly wild with her untidy ways.
Nell was secretly longing to get to work again, and chafing sorely at her enforced idleness. She spent hours every day in the sunshine; reading, walking, making plans for the future, and doing her best to help anyone who stood in need of assistance that she was able to give.