"Well, where does she live?" cried the boy, impatiently.
"The Widder Brett lives down yender!" said the sandy person, nodding down the street. "Ye can't see the house from here, but go clear on to the eend, and ye'll see it to yer right,—a yaller house, with green blinds, an' a yard in front. You 'kin to the Widder Brett?"
"No," said the tall young lady, speaking for the first time; "we are no relations. Thank you very much! Good-morning!" and with a word to the boy, she gathered up the reins, and drove slowly down the little street.
The post-supporters watched them till the last wheel of the phaeton disappeared round the turn; then they turned eagerly to one another.
"Who be they? What d'ye s'pose they want o' the Widder Brett?" was the eager cry. "Says they ain't no blood relation o' Mis' Brett's." "Some o' Brett's folks, likely!" "I allus heerd his folks was well off."
Meanwhile the phaeton was making its way along slowly, as I said, for Rose was tired after the long drive.
"But not too tired!" she averred, in answer to Hildegarde's anxious inquiry. "Oh, no, dear! not a bit too tired, only just enough to make rest most delightful. What a funny little street!—something like the street in Glenfield, isn't it? Look! that might be Miss Bean's shop, before you took hold of it."
"Oh, worse, much worse!" cried Hildegarde, laughing. "These bonnets are positively mildewed. Rose, I see the mould on that bunch of berries."
"Mould!" cried Rose, in mock indignation. "It is bloom, Hilda,—a fine purple bloom! City people don't know the difference, perhaps."
"See!" said Hildegarde; "this must be 'the Widder Brett's' house. What a pretty little place, Rose! I am sure we shall like the good woman herself. Take the reins, dear, while I go and make sure. No, Bubble, I will go myself, thank you."