With sudden resolve she sprang up, cleared away the confused remnants of the meal before her, dashed to her room for a scarlet sweater, and fled into the radiant world outside.
She followed the driveway until it joined the road, and then, after hesitating an instant, turned in the direction of the Howe farm. A mischievous light danced in her brown eyes, and a smile curved her lips.
The road along which she passed was bordered on either side by walls of gray stone covered with shiny-leaved ivy and flanked by a checkerboard of pastures roughly dotted with clumps of hardback and boles of protruding rock. Great brakes grew in the shady hollows, and from the woods beyond came the cool, moist perfume of moss and ferns. 64
The girl looked about her with delight. Then she began to sing softly to herself and jingle rhythmically the coins in her pocket.
It was nearly a quarter of a mile to the Howes’ gate, and by the time she reached it, her swinging step had given to her cheek a color that even the apple orchard could not rival.
A quick tap on the knocker brought Mary Howe to the door. She was tall, angular, and short-sighted, and she stood regarding her visitor inquisitively, her forehead lined by a network of wrinkles.
“Could you let me have a dozen eggs?” asked Lucy.
Mary looked at the girl in waiting silence.
“I am Miss Webster’s niece,” explained Lucy, with an appealing smile. “We live next door, you know. Aunt Ellen didn’t seem to have any eggs to spare, so——” she stopped, arrested by Mary’s expression.
“Maybe you don’t sell eggs,” she ventured.