The ludicrous look of resignation in the small round face was too much for the questioner, and she burst into a rippling peal of laughter, so hearty that a much older woman popped a surprised face out of the door to see what was the matter. Peace caught a glimpse of her as she vanished within doors once more, and demanded, "Who is that?"
"Aunt Pen."
"That's a quaint name, too. I'd as soon be called 'pencil'," she retaliated.
"It isn't very common these days," smiled the woman. "The real name is Penelope, but I shortened it to 'Pen.' Poor Aunt Pen, she has a hard time of it."
"Why? I sh'd think it would be easy work living in such a beautiful place as this."
"A beautiful place isn't everything in life," came the bitter retort, and the rebellious look clouded the lovely eyes once more.
"No, it ain't," Peace acknowledged; "but it's a whole lot. Just s'posing you had to live in a mite of an ugly house without nice things to eat or wear and with no father or mother to take care of you, and a mortgage you couldn't pay, and an old skinflint of a man ready to slam you outdoors and gobble up the farm, furniture and everything, the minute the mortgage was due. How'd you like that?"
"Have you no father or mother?" The voice was very soft and sweet again, and the blue eyes glowed tenderly.
Peace shook her head. "They are both inside the gates."
"Then who takes care of you?"