She came laden with good things, or rather the carriage was laden, and she came with it and them. First were two large, hard pillows—Mrs. Dobson’s pillows were small; after the pillows there came a big basket overflowing with nice, “comforting things to eat.” Then there were two summer suits of Frank’s clothing—for either Harry had no change of garments, or they had been carried away by the “circus folks.”
“I’m going to stay with you to-day,” said Kate to Mrs. Dobson, as the good woman gave expression to her surprise upon seeing the carriage move off. “Mamma and I thought maybe you’d like to have me.”
“How kind! I should very much, for now it is time for my bit of dinner to go on the fire. You may sit in there,” pointing toward the door of Harry’s room, “but I wouldn’t talk much if I were you, for I believe he is just the least mite out of his head now and then.”
Kate went in cautiously. The boy did not hear her. He thought he was alone, for he heard the sound of Mrs. Dobson’s movements in the kitchen.
He sighed two or three times, and moved his left arm uneasily toward his eyes. At last he said, “Dear me! I wish I hadn’t promised. I do want to see out a bit, and know where I am.”
“I’m here,” said Kate. “I’ll tell you all about it. Did you see the house when you were brought into it last night?”
“I didn’t know anything at all from the time I was on the pony until I heard somebody say, ‘He will need something to eat by-and-by, Mrs. Dobson,’ and I wondered who Mrs. Dobson was, and who would want something to eat. Pretty soon I moved a little, and then I began to understand, for somebody took hold of my arm and said, ‘You mustn’t move nor try to move, either,’ and then she told me who she was, and how I had fallen, and been fetched here.”
“You shut your eyes and try to see what I am going to tell you about,” said Kate. “I often make Frank try, but he can’t do it very well. In the first place, turn your head that way—so,” turning Harry’s face to the east; “there is the sea, the Sound—Long Island Sound is its real name—and it’s about a mile away; then,” turning his face about toward the north, “running right along past here is a road—no, a lane—Pumpkin Delight Lane, it is called. Funny, isn’t it? Well, this is the last house between the village and the sea. It is old, ever so old. The boards—clapboards I guess—are wrinkled—shrunken I mean—so that they kind of peal up all around and look as though they’d like to be pulled off. It’s brown, the house is; never been painted, perhaps; anyway, it’s a great deal prettier than painters’ brown paint; and there is one chimney that looks, on the outside, just as though it was right in the middle of the house. It is a stone chimney, too, and when you get well, Mrs. Dobson will let you go up the staircase—that’s stone, too—up into her garret, where you can see way out to sea, ever so far.”
“But who lives here, besides Mrs. Dobson?” interrupted Harry.
“Josh. Mrs. Dobson and just Josh, that’s all. Queer, isn’t it, a woman and a dog? Mrs. Dobson won’t go away from here to live, either. This was her father’s house, and her mother lived in it, and all her brothers and sisters, too; and,” said Kate in a whisper, “her husband, Mr. Dobson, went away to sea the very morning they were married, and he’s never come back in all this time; nor anybody who went with him, either. Mother told Frank and me all about it; and her mother told her, when she was quite a little girl, and,” breathed Kate, in a lower whisper, “don’t tell, ever. But Frank and me guess that she thinks he’ll come back again, and that’s the reason she won’t go away.”