"Law, there ain't any hens there," replied Eliza. "A pig wouldn't live there now. I'm itchin' to burn it down, it's so dirty."
"Nobody lives there?" asked Phil.
"No, not since Granny Foster that it was built for. She scared us children out of our wits in her time, and I s'pose we pestered her, 'cause of course we was imps and couldn't keep away. We'd rather play tricks on her than eat, but only a few got their courage up to do more than knock on the door and run away. That door! My! to think I can walk up to it and open it. It seems wonderful even now."
"Let's go and open it," said Phil, eagerly, beginning to stride in that direction.
"Oh, no, Mr. Philip, keep away. It's too dirty and musty in there for words. Jennie quit keepin' hens a long time ago, and I guess she just let it rot away there, 'cause 'twa'n't worth cleanin'!"
"Oh, but I want to see where little Eliza was scared," persisted Phil, hurrying so fast that Eliza was obliged to run after him. She stood away a little, though, with her long nose lifted while he opened the door and his eager eyes swept the interior.
"Don't you go in there, oh, don't, Mr. Philip," she said. "I can tell you just what there is, a parlor and a kitchen, and a rough kind o' steps that go upstairs where there's only half a floor. It would make a grand bonfire. I wish Jennie'd let us."
"She owns it, does she? The woman that's going to keep your boarding-house?"
"Oh, yes; all this land's hers and the orchard."