shod and so on. Of course in the home you would have no such
expenses. You could sell your horses and your old coach is little more
than junk, and old Billy could go to a home too."

Miss Ann had paused a moment but when Mrs. Throckmorton spoke of her
carriage as junk and suggested a home for Billy, too, her indignation
knew no bounds and with a commanding gesture of dismissal she stalked
from the dining-room. Billy was summoned and since it was out of the
question to start so late in the evening it was determined that
daylight should find them on their way to Buck Hill--Buck Hill where a
certain flavor of old times was still to be found, with Cousin Bob
Bucknor, so like his father, who had been one of the swains who
followed in the train of the beautiful Ann Peyton. Buck Hill would
always make her welcome!

And now--Buck Hill--and a hall bedroom!

CHAPTER IV

The Energy of Judith

"Mother, Cousin Ann Peyton is at Buck Hill. I saw her old carriage on
the road when I went in for my express parcels."

"Why will you insist upon saying Cousin Ann, Judith?" drawled Mrs.
Buck. "I'd take my time about calling anybody cousin who scorned to do
the same by me."

As Judith's mother took her time about everything, the girl smiled
indulgently, and proceeded in the unpacking of the express packages.

"I'm so glad I am selling for this company that sends all goods
directly to me instead of having me take orders the way the other one
did. I'm just a born peddler and I know I make more when I can deliver
the goods the minute they are bought and paid for. I'm going to take
Buck Hill in on my rounds this year and see if all of my dear cousins
won't lay in a stock of sweet soap and cold cream."

"There you are, calling those Buck Hill folks cousin again. Here
child, don't waste that string. I can't see what makes you so
wasteful. You should untie each package, carefully pick out the knots,
and then roll it up in a ball. I wonder how many times I've told you
that."

"So do I, Mother, and how many times I have told you that my time is
too precious to be picking out hard knots. I bet this minute you've
got a ball of string as big as your head, and please tell me how many
packages you send out in a year."

The girl's manner was gay and bantering. She stopped untying parcels
long enough to kiss her mother, who was laboriously picking the knots
from the cut twine.

Mrs. Buck continued, "Wasting all of that good paper too