She
asked him a question, and he paid no attention. She repeated it,
and he responded with a bewildered and incoherent grunt. Then she
let him alone, after making sure that he knew how to drive
straight.
They had traveled about half a mile, passed the village square, and
gone a short distance beyond, when the boy drew up with a sudden
Whoa! before a very prosperous-looking house. It had been one of
the aboriginal cottages of the vicinity, small and white, with a
roof extending on one side over a piazza, and a tiny "L" jutting
out in the rear, on the right hand. Now the cottage was
transformed by dormer windows, a bay window on the piazzaless side,
a carved railing down the front steps, and a modern hard-wood door.
"Is this John Dent's house?" asked Rebecca.
The boy was as sparing of speech as a philosopher. His only
response was in flinging the reins over the horse's back,
stretching out one foot to the shaft, and leaping out of the wagon,
then going around to the rear for the trunk. Rebecca got out and
went toward the house. Its white paint had a new gloss; its blinds
were an immaculate apple green; the lawn was trimmed as smooth as
velvet, and it was dotted with scrupulous groups of hydrangeas and
cannas.
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