"That's Pritchett's," vouchsafed the station agent. "If Dr. Polly Phelps' house had a coat of whitewash you could see it, too--jest to the right and above Pritchett's. Highest house on the ridge, it is, and a mighty purty site, to my notion."CHAPTER VI
LUCAS PRITCHETT
The Bray girls walked up the village street, which opened directly out of the square. It might have been a quarter of a mile in length, the red brick courthouse facing them at the far end, flanked by the two hotels. When "court sat" Bridleburg was a livelier town than at present.
On either hand were alternately rows of one, or two-story "blocks" of stores and offices, or roomy old homesteads set in the midst of their own wide, terraced lawns. There were a few pleasant-looking people on the walks and most of these turned again to look curiously after the Bray girls. Strangers--save in court week--were a novelty in Bridleburg, that was sure.
Market Street was wide and maple-shaded. Here and there before the stores were "hitching racks"--long wooden bars with iron rings set every few feet--to which a few horses, or teams, were hitched. Many of the vehicles were buckboards, much appreciated in the hill country; but there were farm wagons, as well. It was for one of these latter the Bray girls were in search. The station agent had described Lucas Pritchett's rig.
"There it is," gasped the quick-eyed 'Phemie, "Oh, Lyd! _do_ look at those ponies. They're as ragged-looking 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 

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