“I can believe it. But I don’t think Rebecca would ever set anything on fire. She’s afraid of ’em. She won’t even light the stove or do any cookin’ for that very reason. Many’s the time she’s come in with her pitcher of water and poured it right on the coals in the stove. It’s aggravatin’ if you’re ready to get dinner. Hattie and me have both slapped her for doin’ it, but she keeps right on.... No, I don’t see how we could lay the blame on poor old Rebecca.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” said Mary Louise. “She seems like such a happy, harmless creature that it would be a shame to shut her up somewhere or accuse her of a crime.”
“Didn’t you say she is home now?” inquired Jane.
“She’s upstairs in bed with a sore throat,” replied Mr. Adams. “That’s why Hattie’s stayin’ around—and because my rheumatism is bad ag’in. Otherwise I reckon she’d be over to the Royal trying to get work. She was sorry to lose her job at Flicks’.”
“Yes, she told us.”
The girl herself appeared in the doorway.
“Oh, hello, girls!” she exclaimed. “Glad to see you. Come on into the kitchen. I’m fixin’ some broth for Rebecca. She’s upstairs sick.”
The two girls entered the old farmhouse and followed Hattie through the hall, back into the old-fashioned kitchen. It was a large room, with several chairs near the windows, and Mary Louise and Jane sat down.
“I am going to be frank with you, Hattie,” began Mary Louise, “and tell you why we’ve come. You’ve heard, I suppose, that they arrested Cliff Hunter on the charge of burning three houses, and Jane and I believe he’s innocent. So we want to find out who really is responsible. We thought there might just be a chance that it was Rebecca.”
“I don’t blame you for thinking that,” agreed the girl. “But I’m sure she couldn’t be guilty of that particular thing. She’s crazy enough to do it—only she’s scared of fires.”