Jerusha had bargained that they should have it rent free for three years providing they made all necessary repairs. To this the owner agreed, and also to allow them for a nominal rent the large plot of ground back of it for a garden. At all leisure times the saw and hammer of Horace could be heard, paint and lime were not spared, and flowers sprang up at the touch of Jerusha, who at last had a home of her own.
The short distance from it to the railway station, and the few miles of car ride to the city enabled them to have employment at both ends of the line, and if there was ever a moment in Jerusha’s life when she could consider herself contented, it was when after each day’s absence she came in sight of the brown dwelling.
Seasons had come and gone, and Jerusha, who never before had known attachment to person or place, was one evening sitting with Horace on the moon-lighted porch, after a busy day in the city. She was discussing further improvements, the only subject which was of interest to both, but to which Horace that evening lent but an absent-minded attention.
“Jerusha,” he said, as he arose to retire, “I am to be married to-morrow to one who was in the orphan asylum with us. Her name, as you will remember, is now Jennie Strong, and she is the widow of Diana Strong’s brother. I shall bring her here.”
He closed the door and Jerusha was alone with her astonishment and her anger.
CHAPTER II—HILDA’S AUNT ASHLEY
Miss Jerusha Flint was not the only one who appreciated the home of Dr. and Mrs. Lattinger, in Dorton. Not only the villagers, but people of the surrounding neighborhood had a warm feeling for the genial and hospitable residents of the old colonial mansion, which had been for generations in the family of Mrs. Lattinger, and where she had lived all her life. The Lattingers had also frequent visitors from Baltimore, where the doctor had spent the early years of his practice, some of them being former patients who came out for the day for change of air and scene.
One pleasant morning in June, Dr. Lattinger had the unexpected pleasure of a visit from a former college chum, a lawyer who had a short time before bought one of the pretty suburban homes, and, as was the doctor’s custom, he took him upon his round among his patients.
“Yes, doctor,” commented the visitor, when about noon they were returning to the village, on the same drive upon which they had set out, but in an opposite direction, “you are correct in your opinion of this region of country; it is prosperous and beautiful. There are so many picturesque spots. For instance that cottage nearly covered with ivy, which we are about to pass, is a picture in itself.”
“Yes, it is the home of an artist, Norman Ashley, who, with his wife, came here from Baltimore that he might have natural scenery for his pictures. They are handsome young people and live an ideal life.”