“No, I shouldn’t. Why should I?”
“’Cause you’re my next of kin. By rights it had oughter come to you, hadn’t it?”
“I don’t know the New Hampshire laws.” 158
With an admiring glance at her niece, Ellen broke into an unpleasant laugh.
“There’s no trappin’ you, Miss Lucy Webster, is there?” she exclaimed, rising from her chair and clapping on her hat. “You’re a cute one, an awful cute one!”
“Why?”
“Oh, you don’t need to be told,” chuckled Ellen. “Anybody as cute as you are, knows.”
With that she was gone.
All the morning the girl busied herself within doors, exchanging one duty for another. Toward noon, however, she made an excursion to the garden for lettuce and radishes. Her pathway lay close to the wall, and on her return to the house she was amazed to see lying on the topmost stone of the ruined heap a mammoth bunch of sweet peas. There was no mistaking the fact that the flowers were intended for her, for her name had been hastily scrawled on a bit of crumpled paper and placed beside them. Nothing could have surprised her more than to stumble upon this offering.
Evidently the blossoms had just been gathered, for the raindrops of the previous night still sparkled among their petals, jeweling with brilliancy their kaleidoscopic riot of color. 159