DINING OUT
FOR a moment Mr. Gordon stared at his niece, a puzzled look in his
eyes. Then his face cleared.
"Oh, I see. You've made a natural mistake," he said. "Mrs. Peabody
doesn't live out West, Betty, but up-state--about one hundred and fifty
miles north of Pineville. I've picked up that word ranch in California.
Everything outside the town limits, from a quarter of an acre to a
thousand, is called a ranch. I should have said farm."
Betty settled back in the buggy, momentarily disappointed. A farm
sounded so tame and--and ordinary.
"The plan came to me while I was sitting out on the porch waiting for
dinner," pursued her uncle, unconscious that he had dashed her hopes.
"Your father and I had such a happy childhood on a farm that I'm sure
he would want you to know something about such a life first-hand. But
of course I intend to talk it over with you before writing to Agatha."
"Agatha?" repeated Betty.
"Mrs. Peabody," explained Mr. Gordon. "She and I went to school
together. Last year I happened to run across her brother out in the
mines. He told me that Agatha had married, rather well, I understood,
and was living on a fine, large farm. What did he say they called their
place? 'Bramble Farm'--yes, that's it."
"Bramble Farm," echoed Betty. "It sounds like wild roses, doesn't it,
Uncle Dick? But suppose Mrs. Peabody doesn't want me to come to live
with her?"
"Bless your heart, child, this is no permanent arrangement!" exclaimed
her uncle vigorously. "You're my girl, and mighty proud I am to have
such a bonny creature claiming kin with me. I've knocked about a good
bit, and sometimes the going has been right lonesome."
He seemed to have forgotten the subject of Bramble Farm for the moment,
and something in his voice made Betty put out a timid hand and stroke
his coat sleeve silently.
"All right, dear," he declared suddenly, throwing off the serious mood
with the quick shift that Betty was to learn was characteristic of him.
"If your old bachelor uncle had the slightest idea where he would be
two weeks from now, he'd take you with him and not let you out of his
sight. But I don't know; though I strongly suspect, and it's no place
to take a young lady to. However, if we can fix it up with Agatha for
you to spend the summer with her, perhaps matters will shape up better
in the fall. I'll tell her to get you fattened up a bit; she ought to
have plenty of fresh eggs and milk."
Betty made a wry face.
"I don't want to be fat, Uncle Dick," she protested. "I remember a fat
girl in school, and she had an awful time. Is Mrs. Peabody old?"
Mr. Gordon laughed.
"That's a delicate question," he admitted. "She's some three or four
years younger than I, I believe, and I'm forty-two. Figure it out to
suit yourself."
The bay horse had had its own sweet way so far, and now stopped
short, the road barred by a wide gate. It turned its head and looked
reproachfully at the occupants of the buggy.
"Bless me, I never noticed where we were going," said Mr. Gordon,
surprised. "What's this we're in, Betty, a private lane? Where does it
lead?"
"Let me open the gate," cried Betty, one foot on the step. "We're in
Mr. Bradway's meadow. Uncle Dick. We can keep right on and come out on
the turnpike. He doesn't care as long as the gates are kept closed."
"I'll open the gate," said Mr. Gordon decidedly. "Take the reins and
drive on through."
Betty obeyed, and Mr. Gordon swung the heavy gate into place again and
fastened it.
"Is Mrs. Peabody pretty?" asked Betty, as he took his place beside her
and gathered up the lines. "Has she any children?"
The blue eyes surveyed her quizzically.
"A real girl, aren't you?" teased her uncle. "Why, child, I couldn't
tell you to save me, whether Agatha is pretty or not. I haven't seen
her for years. But she has no children. Her brother, Lem, told me that.
She was a pretty girl." Mr. Gordon added reflectively: "I recollect she
had long yellow braids and very blue eyes. Yes, she's probably a pretty
woman."
To reach the turnpike they had to pass through another barred gate, and
then when they did turn into the main road, Mr. Gordon, glancing at his
watch, uttered an exclamation.
"Four o'clock," he announced. "Why, it must have been later than I
thought when we started. The horse has taken its own sweet time. Look,
Betty, is there a place around here where we can get some ice-cream?"
Betty's eyes danced. Like most twelve-year-old girls, she regarded
ice-cream as a treat.
"There's a place in Pineville; but let's not go there--the whole town
goes to the drug-store in the afternoons," she answered. "Couldn't we
go as far as Harburton and stop at the ice-cream parlor? The horse
isn't very tired, is it, Uncle Dick?"
"Considering the pace he has been going, I doubt it," responded her
uncle. "What's the matter with you and me having a regular lark, Betty?
Let's not go back for supper--we'll have it at the hotel. They can put
up the horse, and we'll drive back when it's cooler."
Betty was thrilled at the idea of eating supper at the Harburton Hotel;
certainly that would be what she called "exciting." But since her
mother's death she had learned to think not only for herself but for
others.
"Mrs. Arnold would be so worried," she objected, trying to keep the
longing out of her voice. "She'd think we'd been struck at the grade
crossing. And, Uncle Dick, I don't believe this dress is good enough."
But Mr. Gordon was not accustomed to being balked by objections. He
swept Betty's aside with a half-dozen words. They would telephone
to Mrs. Arnold. Well, then, if she had no telephone, they would
telephone a near neighbor and get her to carry the message. As for the
dress--here he glanced contentedly at Betty--he didn't see but that she
looked fine enough to attend the King's wedding. She could wash and
freshen up a little when they reached the hotel.
Betty's face glowed.
"You're just like Daddy," she said happily. "Mother used to say she
never had to worry about anything when he was at home. Mrs. Arnold
doesn't either, when her husband's home. Do all husbands do the
deciding, Uncle Dick?"
Mr. Gordon submitted, amusedly, that as he was not a husband, he could
not give accurate information on that point. But Betty's active mind
was turning over something.
"Mrs. Arnold says Mr. Arnold makes the boys stand round," she confided.
"I notice they mind him ten times as quick as they do their mother. But
they love him more. Do you make people stand round, Uncle Dick?"
Mr. Gordon smiled down into the serious little face tilted to meet his
glance.
"I haven't much patience with disobedience, I'm afraid," he replied. "I
suppose some of the men I've bossed would consider me a Tartar. Why,
Betty? Are you thinking of going on strike against my authority? I
don't advise you to try it."
Betty blushed.
"It isn't that," she said hastily. "But--but--well, I have a temper,
Uncle Dick. I get so raging mad! If I don't tell you, some one else
will, or else you'll see me 'acting up,' as Mrs. Arnold says, before
you go. So I thought I'd better tell you."
Mr. Gordon's lips twitched.
"A temper, out of control, is a mighty useless possession," he said
solemnly. "But as long as you know you've got a spark of fire in you,
Betty, you can watch out for it. Afraid of going on the rampage while
you're at Bramble Farm? Is that what's worrying you?"
"Some," confessed his niece, with scarlet cheeks.
"I'll tell you what to do," counseled Mr. Gordon, and his even, rather
slow voice soothed Betty inexpressibly. "When you get a 'mad fit,' you
fly out to the wood pile and chop kindling as hard as you can. You
can't talk and chop wood, and the tongue does most of the mischief when
our tempers get the best of us. You'll remember that little trick,
won't you?"
Betty promised she would, and, as they were now driving into the
thriving county seat of Harburton, she began to point out the few
places of interest.
The hotel was opposite the court house, and as they stopped before the
curb and Betty saw the porch well filled with men, with here and there
a woman in a pretty summer dress, she felt extremely shy. A boy ran up
to take their horse and lead it around to the stables for a rub-down
and a comfortable supper. Mr. Gordon tucked his niece's hand under his
arm and marched unconcernedly up the hotel steps.
"I suppose he's used to hotels," thought Betty, sinking into one of
the stuffed red velvet chairs at her uncle's bidding and looking
interestedly about her as he went in search of the proprietor. "I
wonder if it's fun to live in a hotel all the time instead of a house."
Her uncle came back in a few moments with a pleasant-faced, matronly
woman, whom he introduced as the sister of the proprietor. She was to
take Betty upstairs and let her make herself neat for supper, which
would, so the woman said, be ready in twenty minutes.
"I'll wait for you right here," promised Mr. Gordon, divining in
Betty's anxious glance a fear that she would have to search for him on
the crowded piazza.
"You drove in, didn't you?" asked Mrs. Holmes, leading the way upstairs
and ushering Betty into a pretty, chintz-hung room. "You'll find fresh
water in the pitcher, dear. Didn't your father say you were from
Pineville?"
Betty, pouring the clear, cool water into the basin, explained that Mr.
Gordon was her uncle and said that they had driven over from Pineville
that afternoon.
"Well, you want to be careful driving back," cautioned Mrs. Holmes.
"The flag man goes off duty at six o'clock, and that crossing lies
right in a bad cut. There was a nasty accident there last week."
Betty had read of it in the _Pineville Post_, and thanked Mrs. Holmes
for her warning. When that kind woman had ascertained that Betty needed
nothing more, she excused herself and went down to superintend the two
waitresses.
Betty managed to smooth her hair nicely with the aid of a convenient
sidecomb, and after bathing her face and hands felt quite refreshed and
neat again. She found her uncle reading a magazine.
"Well, you look first rate," he greeted her. "I picked this up off the
table without glancing at it; it's a fashion magazine. It reminds me,
Betty, you'll need some new clothes this summer, eh? You'll have to
take Mrs. Arnold when you go shopping. I wouldn't know a bonnet from a
pair of gloves."
Betty laughed and slipped her hand into his, and they went toward the
dining room. What a dear Uncle Dick was! She had not had many new
clothes since her father's death.