“Isn’t it funny,” whispered Becky, softly, “to think of other folks living in our old home?”
“It isn’t ours, now,” said Don, testily; “so, what’s the odds?”
“It was sold last fall, soon after papa died,” remarked Phœbe, “and this Mr. Randolph bought it. I suppose that’s him strutting across the lawn—the stout gentleman with the cane.”
“The grounds seem more of an attraction to them than the house,” remarked Phil.
“Yes, they’re fresh from the city,” answered his twin. “I’m rather surprised they haven’t come to Riverdale before, to occupy their new home.”
“Our house was sold ’cause we were poor, wasn’t it?” asked Sue.
“Yes, dear. We couldn’t afford to keep it, because poor papa left a lot of debts that had to be paid. So we moved over here, to Gran’pa Eliot’s.”
“Don’t like this place,” observed Don, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, as he stared across the street. “It isn’t half as fine or cosy as our old home.”
“It’s lucky for us that Gran’pa Eliot had a house,” returned Phil, gravely. “And it’s lucky Mr. Ferguson induced him to let us live in it.”
“Guess gran’pa couldn’t help himself, being paralyzed like he is,” said Becky.