“I wonder what we’ll do if daddy can’t get water,” Nan was thinking, when she rounded a turn in the road and saw, in the midst of a clump of apple trees, a small house almost like a log cabin save that it was built of boards instead of logs.
“Oh, I guess some one must live there,” thought Nan. “And if they do they must have a well of water. I’ll go and ask, to make sure, before I go back and tell daddy.”
She made her way toward the weather-beaten, paintless hut, going slowly for fear some savage dog might rush out at her. But none came, and she opened the gate. The gate swung shut after her. It was pulled by a piece of iron fastened to a bit of clothesline for a weight.
“Who’s comin’ in my yard?” a shrill voice demanded—the voice of an old woman, Nan decided, for she could see no one. For a moment, she thought it might be the woman in the faded shawl, the woman who had deserted the baby. Was it possible that little May had come from here?
“Who’s comin’ in my yard?” the voice went on. Nan felt that she must answer.
“If you please, could we get some water—for the auto?” faltered Nan. “It’s boiling over—I mean the auto is—and it needs cool water, and—”
She stopped suddenly as an old woman came around the path that twined itself around the house. One look showed Nan that it was not the little old woman of the faded shawl. This was quite a different person, in fact.
“What is it you want?” demanded the old woman sharply.
“Some water, if you please, for my father’s auto. It’s just down the road a little way,” replied Nan.
“Oh, water! I s’pose ye heard of my spring, ain’t ye?” said the woman, in a rasping voice.