as an old cowhide trunk."

"And that wagon," sighed Lyddy. "Shall we ride in it? We'll be a sight
going through the village."

"We'd better wait and see if he'll take us," remarked 'Phemie. "But I
should worry about what people here think of us!"

As she spoke a lanky fellow, with a lean and sallow face, lounged out
of the post-office and across the walk to the heads of the
disreputable-looking ponies. He wore a long snuff-colored overcoat that
might have been in the family for two or three generations, and his
overalls were stuck into the tops of leg-boots.

"That's Lucas--sure," whispered 'Phemie.

But she hung back, just the same, and let her sister do the talking.
And the first effect of Lyddy's speech upon Lucas Pritchett was most
disconcerting.

"Good morning!" Lyddy said, smiling upon the lanky young farmer. "You are
Mr. Lucas Pritchett, I presume?"

He made no audible reply, although his lips moved and they saw his very
prominent Adam's apple rise and fall convulsively. A wave of red suddenly
washed up over his face like a big breaker rolling up a sea-beach; and
each individual freckle at once took on a vividness of aspect that was
fairly startling to the beholder.

"You _are_ Mr. Pritchett?" repeated Lyddy, hearing a sudden half-strangled
giggle from 'Phemie, who was behind her.

"Ya-as--I be," finally acknowledged the bashful Lucas, that Adam's apple
going up and down again like the slide on a trombone.

"You are going home without much of a load; aren't you, Mr. Pritchett?"
pursued Lyddy, with a glance into the empty wagon-body.

"Ya-as--I be," repeated Lucas, with another gulp, trying to look at both
girls at once and succeeding only in looking cross-eyed.

"We are going to be your nearest neighbors, Mr. Pritchett," said Lyddy,
briskly. "Our aunt, Mrs. Hammond, has loaned us Hillcrest to live in and
we have our baggage and some other things at the railway station to be
carted up to the house. Will you take it--and us? And how much will you
charge?"

Lucas just gasped--'Phemie declared afterward, "like a dying fish." This
was altogether too much for Lucas to grasp at once; but he had followed
Lyddy up to a certain point. He held forth a broad, grimed, calloused
palm, and faintly exclaimed:

"You're Mis' Hammon's nieces? Do tell! Maw'll be pleased to see ye--an'
so'll Sairy."

He shook hands solemnly with Lyddy and then with 'Phemie, who flashed him
but a single glance from her laughing eyes