“Howdye, June!” said the Widow Crane kindly. “Come right in!” In her June knew straightway she had a friend and she picked up her bundle and followed upstairs—the first real stairs she had ever seen—and into a room on the floor of which was a rag carpet. There was a bed in one corner with a white counterpane and a washstand with a bowl and pitcher, which, too, she had never seen before.
“Make yourself at home right now,” said the Widow Crane, pulling open a drawer under a big looking-glass—“and put your things here. That's your bed,” and out she went.
How clean it was! There were some flowers in a glass vase on the mantel. There were white curtains at the big window and a bed to herself—her own bed. She went over to the window. There was a steep bank, lined with rhododendrons, right under it. There was a mill-dam below and down the stream she could hear the creaking of a water-wheel, and she could see it dripping and shining in the sun—a gristmill! She thought of Uncle Billy and ole Hon, and in spite of a little pang of home-sickness she felt no loneliness at all.
“I KNEW she would be pretty,” said Miss Anne at the gate outside.
“I TOLD you she was pretty,” said Hale.
“But not so pretty as THAT,” said Miss Anne. “We will be great friends.”
“I hope so—for her sake,” said Hale.
* * * * * * *
Hale waited till noon-recess was nearly over, and then he went to take June to the school-house. He was told that she was in her room and he went up and knocked at the door. There was no answer—for one does not knock on doors for entrance in the mountains, and, thinking he had made a mistake, he was about to try another room, when June opened the door to see what the matter was. She gave him a glad smile.
“Come on,” he said, and when she went for her bonnet, he stepped into the room.