“Is he crazy, or isn’t he?” exclaimed Kate, when he was fairly out of hearing.
“He’s queer. That’s all you can say,” said Stella; “but for my part, I don’t mind him. People are so much of a pattern here in America that I think it’s rather nice to have one of a different sort mixed in now and then.”
“I don’t see how he can keep up his notion of being rich and live in a poorhouse,” said Kate.
“Don Quixote thought all the inns were castles,” said Stella. “I don’t know why a person with an imagination like his shouldn’t take a poorhouse for a first-class hotel.”
Her interest in huckleberrying was gone now, and the mood Tom had foretold was upon her. Esther divined it as she saw her looking at the chestnut tree, with her head tipped to one side.
“Oh, do sketch it, dear,” she whispered. “Did you really bring drawing materials with you?”
Stella laughed, and drew a pencil and small pad from the bag that hung at her belt.
“Fill my pail for me, and you shall have it for a souvenir,” she said.
The sketch was a pretty thing, and the pails, though not all full, contained a goodly quantity of berries, when they descended the hill in the late afternoon. As they reached the bottom a sudden thought came to Esther. “Do you suppose your mother would care if I should take my berries round to Aunt Katharine?” she asked.
“My mother would be ready to give you a special reward for thinking of it,” said Stella. “But do you really feel like going round by Aunt Katharine’s? It’s ever so far out of our way!”