52

“You won’t here,” came crisply from her aunt.

Lucy failed to catch the gist of the remark.

“Why, I thought you kept hens,” she said innocently.

“I do.”

“Oh, I see. They’re not laying.”

“Yes, they are. I get about four dozen eggs every day,” retorted Ellen. “But I sell ’em instead of eatin’ ’em.”

As comprehension dawned upon Lucy, she was silent.

“Folks don’t need eggs in the mornin’ anyway,” continued Ellen, still on the defensive. “This stuffin’ yourself with food is all habit. Anybody can get into the way of eatin’ more ’n’ more, an’ not know where to stop. Bread an’ coffee an’ oatmeal is all anybody needs for breakfast.”

If she expected a reply from her niece, she was disappointed, for Lucy did not speak.

“When you can get sixty-six cents a dozen for eggs, it’s no time to be eatin’ ’em,” Ellen continued irritably. “You ain’t come to live with a Rockefeller, Miss.”

Receiving no answer to the quip, she drew a chair to the table and sat down. 53

53

“You’d better come an’ get your coffee while it’s hot,” she called to Lucy.

Slowly the girl approached the table and seated herself opposite her aunt.

The window confronting her framed a scene of rare beauty. The Webster farm stood high on a plateau, and beneath it lay a broad sweep of valley, now half-shrouded in the silver mists of early morning. The near-at-hand field and pasture that sloped toward it were gemmed with dew. Every blade of tall grass of the mowing sparkled. Even the long rows of green shoots striping the chocolate earth of the garden flashed emerald in the morning sunlight; beyond the plowed land, through an orchard whose apple boughs were studded with ruby buds, Lucy caught a glimpse of a square 

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