“I don't know; it is hardly probable. Do you know where he lives?”
“With the woman who called here and said she was your cousin.”
“Yes, I remember, Lonny. I will order the carriage, and we will go there. But you must be very careful not to let them know Uncle Oliver is in New York. I don't wish them to meet him.”
“All right! I ain't a fool. You can trust me, ma.”
Soon the Pitkin carriage was as the door, and Mrs. Pitkin and Alonzo entered it, and were driven to the shabby house so recently occupied by Mrs. Forbush.
“It's a low place!” said Alonzo contemptuously, as he regarded disdainfully the small dwelling.
“Yes; but I suppose it is as good as she can afford to live in. Lonny, will you get out and ring the bell? Ask if Mrs. Forbush lives there.”
Alonzo did as requested.
The door was opened by a small girl, whose shabby dress was in harmony with the place.
“Rebecca's child, I suppose!” said Mrs. Pitkin, who was looking out of the carriage window.