"Then I'll tell her," said his quicksilver friend, and he flashed to 'Tilda Jane's side. "Go up Wallastook Street to Allaguash Street. Ask for Reverend Mr. Tracy's house. Any one'll tell you—understand?"
"Yes, sir—thank you; and thank you, too," and with a grateful gesture toward the farmer, she was gone.
The farmer gazed after her. "I hate to see a young one in trouble. Someone's been imposin' on her."
Mr. Price felt sympathetic, but he said nothing.
"Who'd you send her to?" inquired the farmer. "I'd give a barrel of apples to know."
"To me?" inquired Mr. Price, smartly.
The farmer laughed. "Yes, sir—I'd do it. You've put me in the way of business before now."
"I sent her to a man," replied Mr. Price, "who might be in Boston to-day if he wanted to. He gave up a big church to come here. He's always inveighing against luxury and selfishness and the other crowd of vices. He and his wife have stacks of money, but they give it away, and never do the peacock act. They're about as good as they make 'em. It isn't their talking I care about—not one rap. It's the carrying out of their talk, and not going back on it."
"My daughter wants to go out as hired help. I guess that would be an A number one place, if they'd have her," observed the father, meditatively. "Good enough," said Mr. Price, "if you want her to ruin her earthly prospects, and better her heavenly ones," and he went away laughing.
The farmer stepped to the post-office door. 'Tilda Jane was toiling up the sidewalk with downcast head. The shop windows had no attractions for her, nor was she throwing a single glance at the line of vehicles now passing along the street; and muttering, "Poor young one!" the farmer returned to his correspondence.