He went home to his house on a shady street of the village, and strolled
into the kitchen where his housekeeper was cooking a rabbit.
“Mrs. Hansen,” he said, “who’s that up at Mrs. Defoe’s?”
Of course she knew.
“Her granddaughter, Mr. Petersen. Two of them,” she answered, eagerly,
delighted at being questioned. “They came from New York a week ago. Two
young orphans. Just lost their father. He was thought to be rich, but it
seems he wasn’t. He didn’t leave them a penny. And they’ve been brought
up to expect the best of everything, so I’ve heard. It’s sad, isn’t it,
Mr. Petersen?”
He thought it was; the phrase “two young orphans” stuck in his mind, and
while he walked about his garden, inspecting his trees and vegetables,
he reflected on it. “Young orphans.” He remembered that she had been
wearing a black dress, and that the ribbons in her little apron had been
black. And there had been a sobriety in her bearing....
Mrs. Hansen wished to pursue the subject. She began when she had put his
excellent dinner on the table.
“Excuse me, Mr. Petersen,” she said--he wouldn’t allow “sir”--“But which
of the young ladies did you see? I hear that one of them is very
handsome.”
He reflected. No, Minnie was not very handsome; _nice_ looking, and with
fine dark eyes, but not handsome.
He smiled a little.
“It’s hard to say. I’m not a judge, Mrs. Hansen. The one I saw was
dark----”
“They’re both dark. But one’s----”
“This rabbit stew is very good, Mrs. Hansen,” he interposed, and she
took the hint and left him to read the local paper in peace, as was his
custom during dinner.
Afterwards he went out to sit on his little porch and smoke. And thought
very kindly of the “young orphan,” who hadn’t a penny.
The least he could do, he decided, was not to trouble them about the
rent--a decision which suited them, apparently, for he neither saw nor
heard anything of the Defoe family for a long time. In fact, until he
was needed by one of them.