“Of course he’ll stay,” Gladys cried as she tossed the tiny dog in the air while he gave vent to an imitation growl. “Aunt Hannah and I have arranged it without so much as asking your permission. You two are to live here; Snip’s work is to enjoy himself with me, while you’re to make a garden, the like of which won’t be seen this side of New York. What do you think of settling down to being a farmer?”
“I’d like it mighty well, but it can’t be done.” And Seth gazed out through the open door, not daring to meet Miss Gladys’ startled gaze.
“Wait till you’ve talked with Aunt Hannah,” she exclaimed after the first burst of surprise had passed. “We’ve fixed everything, an’ you’ll find that there isn’t a word for you to say.”
“I have talked with her,” Seth replied gloomily. “We’d both love to stay mighty well, but we can’t.”
“I’d like to know why”; and now Gladys was on her feet, looking sternly at the sorrowful guest. “Neither you nor Snip have got a home, an’ here’s one with the best woman who ever lived—that much I know to a certainty.”
“I believe you, but it can’t be done.” And the boy walked to the other side of the barn as if to end the conversation.
Gladys looked after him for a moment in mingled surprise and petulance, and then, taking Snip in her arms, she walked straight into the house, leaving him seemingly more alone than ever.
During the remainder of the forenoon neither Aunt Hannah, Gladys, nor Snip came out of the door, and then the little woman summoned him to dinner.
Seth entered the house much as a miserable culprit might have done, and, after making a toilet at the kitchen sink, sat down at the table in obedience to Aunt Hannah’s instructions.
This time he half expected she would pray, and was not mistaken. Not having been taken by surprise, he heard every word, and his cheeks crimsoned with mingled shame and pleasure as she asked her Heavenly Father to bless and guide the homeless stranger who had come to them, inclining his heart to the right path.