It was a comfortable, low-roofed, stone farmhouse, at which the stage deposited our travellers, after a pleasant drive from the railway station. To Arthur it seemed very much like a home, so filled was it with memories of his dear father. As Colonel Dale had notified the neighbor, who had it in charge, of their coming, everything was in readiness for them. The house had been aired and swept, its plain but serviceable furniture dusted and cleaned, lights were burning in all the lower rooms, and supper was nearly ready.
Miss Hatty, who had never been there before, was charmed with the place, and hoped that if they lost Dalecourt they could make their home here in “Prince Dusty’s” castle.
They did not tell anybody why they came into that out-of-the-way part of the world, and many were the discussions throughout the scattered neighborhood as to the object of their visit. At length old Deacon Thackby thought he had discovered the secret and he announced the fact, with a wise look on his shrewd face, as he and several others stood on the church steps after a Friday evening meeting.
“I figgered out yesterday,” he said, “why them Dales come here and settled down like they was going to stay.”
“I thought maybe from the way I see him peering round that p’raps he was perspecting fer ile,” piped a thin voice at the Deacon’s elbow.
“Ile!” snorted the Deacon, contemptuously. “You’ve got ile on the brain, brother Moss. Ef thar was any ile raound here wouldn’t some of us that was borned and brung up in the place have diskivered it long ago? Do you suppose a stranger, who I reckin never seed a drap of crude in his life, is a comin to tell us what we never knowed about our own kentry, nor what our fathers never knowed, nor what nobody never will know?”
“Well——” said the thin voice.
“Well!” interrupted the Deacon. “There’s no use talking. It may be ile that has brung ’em here; but it’s paint ile, an not petroleum. That young woman is one of them artiss’s that you hear so much about nowadays, an she’s here to do some paintin. The boy wanted to come naturally ’cause it was his home, an the old Cunnel he come to look after ’em. That’s all thar is about it.”
“What makes you think the young lady is an artist, Deacon?” asked another of the group.
“I don’t think, I know,” replied Deacon Thackby, decidedly, “an how I know is ’cause I seen her at it, and ’cause she’s cranky and pernicketly like they all is. Why, last Wednesday she come down to my old red mill an did a drawring of it, an called it a beautiful color subjec, an said she was comin down agin yesterday afternoon to do it in iles. Well, you know how drefful shabby-looking the old place was, all kinder cluttered up, an the paint wore off in patches, an them vines hiding the best half of it.