Then she heard sounds of talking—a woman’s voice high-pitched and complaining, children’s tones eager and excited, and the tramp of horses’ feet.
With a fluttering at her heart, she ran round to the front of the house. As a rule, hardly one person in a month passed along the trail, except in winter, when lumbering was being carried on—even then it was only men and boys who came; but these arrivals, by the sound of their voices, were plainly womenfolk, or at least there was one woman.
When she turned the corner of the house she saw a little procession of three horses, just halting under the big Valparaiso oak. A woman, lean and shrewish of aspect, was mounted on the first animal, in company with many bags and bundles, among which a fryingpan and two new tin saucepans showed conspicuously.
Two children—a boy and a girl—shared the next horse, their steed also being hung round with trappings of the same description; while the third horse was heavily laden with more household stuff.
A man and a big boy completed the party, which looked hot and tired, as well they might after the ten miles’ journey from Button End, for in this glowing September noontide the forest trail was hot as a furnace.
Nell approached with a bewildered look on her face, and some dismay in her heart, wondering how she could contrive to offer hospitality to so many people. Her household stores were at a painfully low ebb at the present moment—indeed, she had neither tea, sugar, nor coffee to offer them, and the remaining flour in her barrel had been made into bread that morning—two small loaves, which would not half suffice to feed this party of five.
Then she remembered the great basket of berries which she had gathered two hours before, and that the early apples were already quite eatable, so she quickened her steps to greet the arrivals, a little comforted on the score of hospitality.
“Are you Doss Umpey’s gal?” called out the woman, in high-pitched, querulous tones.
“I am his granddaughter,” Nell answered, with as much dignity as she could muster, yet all the while conscious that her dreadful old clothes detracted very much from the cold aloofness of her bearing.
“It’s about the same thing in the end, I guess,” rejoined the woman, with a cackle of harsh laughter. “Well, there’s a letter from the old man to tell you why we’ve come, and are going to stop.”