“Janey,” said grandmother later, when they were all making ready to leave the train, “can’t you guess who Mrs. Hartwell-Jones really is? Don’t you remember her name?”
Jane shook her head.
“Why, she is the lady who wrote that lovely book you got last Christmas, of which you are so fond.”
“The ‘Jimmie-Boy’ book?” asked Jane in an awestruck voice. “But that is by——” Opening her own miniature dress-suit case, of which she was immensely proud, Jane got out the book in question and spelled out the author’s name: “Mary C. Hartwell-Jones.”
“Exactly,” said grandmother with great satisfaction. “That is her whole name, ‘Mary C. Hartwell-Jones.’ She has taken rooms in Mrs. Parsons’ house at Hammersmith for the whole summer, and she expects to write another book!”
“Oh!” exclaimed Jane, much impressed. “And she asked us to come and see her, grandmother.”
Jane stared hard at the lady with whom she had chattered so freely and familiarly a short time before and whom she now regarded with the greatest possible awe. Then, crossing to Christopher, she told him the wonderful news. And from that time on Mrs. Hartwell-Jones was known to the two children as “The lady who wrote books.”
[CHAPTER II—SUNNYCREST]
At Hammersmith a big, old-fashioned carryall stood beside the station platform and behind it a light spring wagon, the two drivers standing side by side on the platform, watching the descending passengers anxiously. The older man was Joshua Adams, the head man on grandfather’s farm. Grandmother always called him Joshua, but to every one else he was Josh. His companion, Jo Perkins, a young stable boy familiarly known as “Perk,” was new on the place since the twins’ last visit, and they did not know him. They eyed him curiously as they shook hands heartily with Joshua, who was an old and long-tried friend.
“My, my, you’ve growed sence I see ye,” exclaimed Joshua, standing the children off and looking at them in mock amazement. “Most big enough to be giants in a side-show.”