“I see ole Jakes, with his old flivver a wheezin’ and blowin’ up these ere hills, er takin’ them to the hotels er pile er times. By Gosh, that Jakes sure is ole, fer he’s been er luggin’ round these parts with one foot half-buried fer the last ten years. When he goes off the handle what’ll become of the poor ole ladies—the folks hereabouts are er guessin’. That deaf-and-dumb one—she makes me feel sort er lonesome.” Sam suddenly confided, “with no gift of gab to er, and t’other one with the rheumatics, sure they do be afflicted.”
Nathalie also told Sam about meeting their neighbor in the little red house. But when she questioned him as to who she was, and if she lived there all alone, his face became impassive and he grew evasive in his answers. Surmising that he might possibly be a relative of hers—as she had seen him working about the place, she said no more, but hurried into the house, her mind intent on the Sweet-Pea ladies and their pathetic little story, as told by Sam.
“What a misfortune,” she mused, “to be poor, an invalid, and with only a deaf-and-dumb sister to depend upon. O dear! what terrible things people have to suffer when they grow old. Well, I shall have to go this afternoon and return that umbrella, and—yes, I just wish I could do something to help them in some way, for Miss Whipple is a dear!”
But, as she hastened to her room to make her customary entry in her diary, the two ladies were forgotten. This daily duty the girl found quite irksome, especially when she had forgotten, and had to make her entry at night when she was tired and wanted to tumble right into bed; and then, too, she did not see how the everyday doings of her life could interest any one. And as for searching for the most valuable thing in the house, this she had never found time to do. Possibly she had not tried very hard to find time, as deep within her heart she considered the whole thing sheer nonsense. And how was she going to judge the value of the things in the house, anyway, she questioned rebelliously, for was it not just an old curio shop filled with strange, odd junk, that her aunt had brought from the other side?
But when she hinted this to her mother, she had been duly rebuked, although Mrs. Page agreed with her daughter that it would be a difficult task to determine the value of anything she might select. She said, however, that she considered that Nathalie, as a courtesy to her aunt, who was giving them such a delightful summer up in those beautiful mountains, should do all that she could to comply with her request, even if she thought it absurd.
“I doubt if the finding of this very mysterious valuable thing would bring either money or property to any one,” continued the lady, “as I understand that Aunt Mary left the bulk of her estate to some charitable institution as long as no near relative or heir appeared. But she was, as I have told you before, very queer in some ways, and probably took this method of giving away some of her personal effects. It is not at all likely, Nathalie, that you will be the lucky finder,”—there was a smile in Mrs. Page’s eyes,—“but still you should make it a point to search for it, no matter how you feel.”
“Oh I intended to hunt for the old thing, anyway,” returned Nathalie excusingly, “but I have been a little slow, perhaps, because Cynthia has been so obsessed with the idea, that I hate to be as silly. Jan says she spends most of the day hunting in the attic and through the house when we are down-stairs. She is wild to get into that mystery room, for she thinks it is hidden there.
“But you should have seen her last night, mother,” giggled Nathalie. “I was coming through the hall and suddenly saw a flash of light on the stairs. And there was Cynthia, down on her knees, peering under the stair-carpet and poking about with her flash-light. She seemed quite annoyed when she saw that she was discovered, and, jumping up quickly, scurried down the hall. Dear me! she is the queerest thing.”
“Well, let her look,” replied Mrs. Page kindly. “Perhaps her efforts will be rewarded, for, as I understand, she is engaged to a Mr. Buddie, and he is very poor, Janet says. I presume it would make them both very happy if Cynthia came into a little money, or found something of value, for perhaps they could be married.”
“But, mother, Janet hasn’t looked once. She hates this mystery prowl, as she calls it, as much as I do,” emphasized Nathalie, “and I have hard work making her write in her diary. She is busy writing a speech on suffrage, which she expects to deliver this fall. Just imagine, mother, Janet making a speech,” and Nathalie smiled at the thought.