“How do you know they’re from New York?” demanded Don.
“Somebody said so. Oh, it was Lil Harrington; her father once knew ’em.”
The elders had entered the house by this time, and the carriage and baggage wagon had driven away. The girl and boy, about fourteen and twelve years of age, were walking with mincing steps about the grounds, examining the shrubbery and flowers and, as Don said, evidently “taking stock” of their new possessions.
“That fellow,” Don added, “is a snob. I can see that from here. He wears a velvet suit, and it’s braided. Think of that, girls!”
“Let’s go over and talk to ’em,” suggested Becky. “We can show ’em the stables, an’ where we kept the rabbits an’ guinea pigs, an’ how to climb the pear-tree.”
“Not me!” exclaimed Don, scornfully.
“We’ve got to know ’em sometime,” retorted his sister, “bein’ as we’re next door neighbors. And it’s polite for us to make the first call.”
“They’re usurpers,” declared Don. “What right had they to buy our old house? They’ll get no politeness out o’ me, Beck, if they live here a thousand years.”
The boy and girl opposite came down the lawn and stood at the entrance of the driveway, looking curiously down the wide village street, shaded with its avenue of spreading trees.
“Come on, Sue,” said Becky. “Don’t be cross to-day, anyhow. Let’s go and talk to our neighbors.”