ld when
my father married his mother, the Widow Merrivale. John was just my
age, and we were brought up together just like brother and sister. He
was a real nice fellow, I must say. But he went out to Californy years
ago, and I haven't heard a word of him for fifteen years--didn't know
if he was alive or dead. But it seems from what I can make out from
the boy, that his mother died when he was a baby, and him and John
roughed it along together--pretty poor, too, I guess--till John took
a fever and died. And he told some of his friends to send the boy to
me, for he'd no relations there and not a cent in the world. And the
child came all the way from Californy, and here he is. I've been just
distracted ever since. I've never been used to children, and to have
the house kept in perpetual uproar is more than I can stand. He's
about twelve and a born mischief. He'll tear through the rooms with
his dirty feet, and he's smashed one of my blue vases and torn down a
curtain and set Towser on the cat half a dozen times already--I never
was so worried. I've got him out on the verandah shelling peas now, to
keep him quiet for a little spell."

"I'm really sorry for you," said Mrs. John Joe. "But, poor child, I
suppose he's never had anyone to look after him. And come all the way
from Californy alone, too--he must be real smart."

"Too smart, I guess. He must take after his mother, whoever she was,
for there ain't a bit of Merrivale in him. And he's been brought up
pretty rough."

"Well, it'll be a great responsibility for you, Cynthia, of course.
But he'll be company, too, and he'll be real handy to run errands
and--"

"_I'm_ not going to keep him," said Miss Cynthia determinedly. Her
thin lips set themselves firmly and her voice had a hard ring.

"Not going to keep him?" said Mrs. John Joe blankly. "You can't send
him back to Californy!"

"I don't intend to. But as for having him here to worry my life out
and keep me in a perpetual stew, I just won't do it. D'ye think I'm
going to trouble myself about children at my age? And all he'd cost
for clothes and schooling, too! I can't afford it. I don't suppose his
father expected it either. I suppose he expected me to look after him
a bit--and of course I will. A boy of his age ought to be able to
earn his keep, anyway. If I look out a place for him somewhere where
he can do odd jobs and go to school in the winter, I think it's all
anyone can expect of me, when he ain't really n