fence and mingling with the darker shadows beyond.




Chapter IX


"Now, Henry," said Mrs. Daggett, as she smilingly set a plate of
perfectly browned pancakes before her husband, which he proceeded to
deluge with butter and maple syrup, "are you sure that's _so_, about
the furniture? 'Cause if it is, we've got two or three o' them things
right in this house: that chair you're settin' in, for one, an'
upstairs there's that ol' fashioned brown bureau, where I keep the
sheets 'n' pillow slips. You don't s'pose she'd want that, do you?"

Mrs. Daggett sank down in a chair opposite her husband, her large
pink and white face damp with moisture. Above her forehead a mist of
airy curls fluttered in the warm breeze from the open window.

"My, ain't it hot!" she sighed. "I got all het up a-bakin' them
cakes. Shall I fry you another griddleful, papa?"

"They cer'nly do taste kind o' moreish, Abby," conceded Mr. Daggett
thickly. "You do beat the Dutch, Abby, when it comes t' pancakes.
Mebbe I could manage a few more of 'em."

Mrs. Daggett beamed sincerest satisfaction.

"Oh, I don't know," she deprecated happily. "Ann Whittle says I don't