“WANZA,” I asked, “how would you like to earn some money?”
Wanza’s big child eyes looked at me from beneath the curls that tumbled distractingly about her fair face.
“Mr. Dale,” she said solemnly, “I earn six dollars a week with my cart.”
We were sitting on the river bank in the shade of some cottonwoods, having met at the village post-office. We had met at three o’clock, and it was close onto five when I propounded my query. I admitted to myself, when I put the question, that I had been philandering. But there was not a swain in the village of Roselake who did not philander with Wanza. And Wanza, gay, quick-tempered, happy-hearted Wanza—who knew if she were as guileless as she seemed with her frank camaraderie?
“To be sure you do,” I answered her, lying back on the soft green turf and lazily watching the skimming clouds high above the terre verte steeples of the pines, “to be sure you do. But how would you like to earn thirty dollars a month—and still drive your cart?”
“Mr. Dale,” Wanza returned, solemnly as before, “it can’t be done.”
Her eyes had grown bigger and brighter, and she rocked forward, clasping her hands over her knees. I did not reply to this assertion, and after a pause she spoke one word, still hugging her knees and keeping her cornflower blue eyes fixed steadily on the river. “How?”
“Wanza,” I asked, “did you know Russell’s old ranch on Hidden Lake had been sold?”
She shook her head.
“A lady has bought it. And this lady wants a companion—some one young and lively. I think she would pay you well for being—er—lively. And I am almost sure she would not object to the peddler’s cart, if you would give up your evenings to her—”