Sam flushed a little and hesitated a moment.
“Why, yes, Annie, I don’t know why you shouldn’t. Mother doesn’t see many people, as you know; and they won’t be expecting you, but if you’ll take things as you find them—”
“Oh, yes, Sam,” she aid dryly. “That’s just what I mean. I want to take them as they are. I want to get acquainted with your family.”
He looked pleased and softened at that.
“Do you, Annie Laurie?” he said with a little thrill in his voice. “Well, that sure is nice of you. Not very many of the neighbors seem to care whether they live or die. Come along, then. Let’s go now.”
So they turned in the direction of the Disbrow house, Annie Laurie leading and Sam walking behind, nervously smiling, the dogs at his heels.
They turned in at the Disbrow place, passing through the sagging gate, and Sam uttered his first apology.
“I’ve tried and tried to get that old gate to stay up on the level,” he said. “But seems like we never have the proper tools to do anything with; and anyhow, the wood’s so rotten it won’t hold a nail, hardly.”
“Oh, a sagging gate is nothing,” answered Annie Laurie dully.
The little garden had not yet felt the influence of spring, and it looked dejected enough. Fragments of last year’s mosquito netting dangled at the windows; the paint of the little house was weather-worn; the arms were off the bench on the porch. Green shades kept the light from making its way into the low rooms. Indeed, so dim was the room into which Annie Laurie stepped that at first she could see nothing. The heat was fairly sweltering, and the atmosphere was lifeless and stale-smelling.