"Don't we hev to do the dishes?" she asked.
"No; Aunt Polly will come for them, by and by. All we have to do now is to enjoy your visit, which I hope you will repeat many times while I am living here."
Again the child sighed contentedly.
"I wish ye was goin' ter stay always," she remarked. "You folks is a sight nicer'n that Joselyn tribe. They kep' us stirred up a good deal till Ned – "
She stopped abruptly.
"What were the Joselyns like?" inquired Mary Louise, in a casual tone that was meant to mask her curiosity.
"Well, that's hard to say," answered Ingua thoughtfully. "Ol' Mis' Kenton were a good lady, an' ev'rybody liked her; but after she died Ann Kenton come down here with a new husban', who were Ned Joselyn, an' then things began to happen. Ned was slick as a ban'box an' wouldn't hobnob with nobody, at first; but one day he got acquainted with Ol' Swallertail an' they made up somethin' wonderful. I guess other folks didn't know 'bout their bein' so close, fer they was sly 'bout it, gen'rally. They'd meet in this summer-house, or they'd meet at our house, crossin' the river on the steppin'-stones; but when Ned came over to us Gran'dad allus sent me away an' said he'd skin me if I listened. But one day – No, I mus'n't tell that," she said, checking herself quickly, as a hard look came over her face.
"Why not?" softly asked Mary Louise.
"'Cause if I do I'll git killed, that's why," answered the child, in a tone of conviction.
Something in her manner startled her hearer.
"Who would kill you, Ingua?" she asked.
"Gran'dad would."
"Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't do that, whatever you said."
"Ye don't know Gran'dad, Mary Louise. He'd as lief kill me as look at me, if I give him cause to."
"And he has asked you not to talk about Mr. Joselyn?"
"He tol' me ter keep my mouth shet or he'd murder me an' stick my body in a hole in the yard. An' he'd do it in a minute, ye kin bank on that."
"Then," said Mary Louise, looking troubled, "I advise you not to say anything he has forbidden you to. And, if anything ever happens to you while I'm here, I shall tell Gran'pa Jim to have Mr. Cragg arrested and put in prison."
"Will ye? Will ye – honest?" asked the girl eagerly. "Say! that'll help a lot. If I'm killed, I'll know I'll be revenged."
So tragic was her manner that Mary Louise could have laughed outright had she not felt there was a really serious foundation for Ingua's fears. There was something about the silent, cold-featured, mysterious old man that led her to believe he might be guilty of any crime. But, after all, she reflected, she knew Mr. Cragg's character only from Ingua's description of it, and the child feared and hated him.
"What does your grandfather do in his office all day?" she inquired after a long pause.
"Writes letters an' reads the ones he gits, I guess. He don't let me go to his office."
"Does he get many letters, then?"
"Heaps an' heaps of 'em. You ask Jim Bennett, who brings the mail bag over from the station ev'ry day."
"Is Jim Bennett the postman?"
"His wife is. Jim lugs the mail 'tween the station an' his own house – that's the little white house next the church – where his wife, who's deef-'n'-dumb, runs the postoffice. I know Jim. He says there's 'bout six letters a year for the farmers 'round here, an' 'bout one a week for Sol Jerrems – which is mostly bills – an' all the rest belongs to Ol' Swallertail."
Mary Louise was puzzled.
"Has he a business, then?" she asked.
"Not as anybody knows of."
"But why does he receive and answer so many letters?"
"Ye'll hev to guess. I've guessed, myself; but what's the use? If he was as stingy of postage stamps as he is of pork an' oatmeal, he wouldn't send a letter a year."
Mary Louise scented a mystery. Mysteries are delightful things to discover, and fascinating to solve. But who would have thought this quiet, retired village harbored a mystery?
"Does your grandfather ever go away from here? Does he travel much?" was her next question.
"He ain't never been out of Cragg's Crossing sence I've knowed him."
"Really," said Mary Louise, "it is perplexing."
Ingua nodded. She was feeling quite happy after her lunch and already counted Mary Louise a warm friend. She had never had a friend before, yet here was a girl of nearly her own age who was interested in her and her history and sweetly sympathetic concerning her woes and worries. To such a friend Ingua might confide anything, almost; and, while she was not fully aware of that fact just now, she said impulsively:
"Without tellin' what'd cost me my life, or lettin' anybody know what's become of Ned Joselyn, I'll say they was money – lots o' money! – passed atween him an' ol' Swallertail. Sometimes the heap went to one, an' sometimes to the other; I seen it with my own eyes, when Gran'dad didn't know I was spyin'. But it didn't stick to either one, for Ned was – " She stopped short, then continued more slowly: "When Ned dis'peared, he'd spent all his own an' his wife's money, an' Ol' Swallertail ain't got enough t' live decent."
"Are you sure of that, Ingua?"
"N-o, I ain't sure o' noth'n. But he don't spend no money, does he?"
"For stamps," Mary Louise reminded her.
Then the child grew silent and thoughtful again. Mary Louise, watching the changing expressions on her face, was convinced she knew more of the mystery than she dared confide to her new friend. There was no use trying to force her confidence, however; in her childish way she was both shrewd and stubborn and any such attempt would be doomed to failure. But after quite a period of silence Mary Louise asked gently:
"Did you like Mr. Joselyn, Ingua?"
"Sometimes. Only when – " Another self-interruption. She seemed often on the point of saying something her better judgment warned her not to. "Sometimes Ned were mighty good to me. Sometimes he brought me candy, when things was goin' good with him. Once, Mary Louise, he kissed me, an' never wiped off his mouth afterwards! Y-e-s, I liked Ned, 'ceptin' when – " Another break. "I thought Ned was a pretty decent gink."
"Where did you learn all your slang, dear?"
"What's slang?"
"Calling a man a 'gink,' and words like that."
"Oh. Marm was full o' them words," she replied with an air of pride. "They seem to suit things better than common words; don't you think so, Mary Louise?"
"Sometimes," with an indulgent smile. "But ladies do not use them, Ingua, because they soil the purity of our language."
"Well," said the girl, "it'll be a long time, yit, afore I'm a lady, so I guess I'll talk like Marm did. Marm weren't a real lady, to my mind, though she claimed she'd show anybody that said she wasn't. Real ladies don't leave the'r kids in the clutches of Ol' Swallertails."
Mary Louise did not think it wise to criticize the unknown Mrs. Scammel or to allow the woman's small daughter to do so. So she changed the subject to more pleasant and interesting topics and the afternoon wore speedily away.
Finally Ingua jumped up and said:
"I gotta go. If Gran'dad don't find supper ready there'll be another rumpus, an' I've been so happy to-day that I want to keep things pleasant-like."
"Won't you take the rest of these cakes with you?" urged Mary Louise.
"Nope. I'll eat one more, on my way home, but I ain't one o' them tramps that wants food pushed at 'em in a bundle. We ain't got much to home, but what we got's ours."
A queer sort of mistaken pride, Mary Louise reflected, as she watched the girl spring lightly over the stepping-stones and run up the opposite bank. Evidently Ingua considered old Mr. Cragg her natural guardian and would