“Have you a husband? And, by the way, hadn’t you better tell me your name?” said Eleanor.
“My husband’s dead—been dead nearly two years,” said the woman. “I’m Sarah Pratt. This here’s my husband’s sister, Ann.”
“Well, Mrs. Pratt, we’ll have to see if we can’t think of some way of making up for all this loss,” said Eleanor, after she had told the woman her own name, and introduced the girls of the Camp Fire. “Why—just a minute, now! You have cows, haven’t you? Plenty of them? Do they give good milk?”
“Best there is,” said the woman. “My husband, he was a crank for buyin’ fine cattle. I used to tell him he was wastin’ his money, but he would do it. Same way with the chickens.”
“Then you sold the milk, I suppose?”
“Yes, ma’am, and we didn’t get no more for it from the creamery than the farmers who had just the ornery cows.”
“Well, I’ve got an idea already. I’m going back to Cranford as soon as we’ve had dinner to see if it will work out. I suppose that’s your son?”
She looked with a smile at the awkward, embarrassed boy who had so little to say for himself.
“Well, while the girls fix you up some shelters where you can sleep to-night, if you stay here, I’m going to ask you to let him drive me into Cranford. I want to do some telephoning—and I think I’ll have good news for you when I come back.”
Strangely enough, Mrs. Pratt made no objection to this plan. Once she had begun to yield to the charm of Eleanor’s manner, and to believe that the Camp Fire Girls meant really to help and were not merely stopping out of idle curiosity, she recovered her natural manner, which turned out to be sweet and cheerful enough, and she also began to look on things with brighter eyes.