Ellen fixed her eyes on the ruddy isinglass in the doors of the Latrobe. Certain discolorations gave to her fancy strange pictures,—a glowing sunset behind a line of trees, a burning lake beneath a cloudy sky. She wondered if Cousin Rindy ever had noticed them, but she did not ask, for her thoughts went galloping off to the little studio apartment in a big city, her home till three months ago. Now it was stripped of all its furnishings, occupied by strangers, and Ellen would know it no more.

“Go on,” encouraged Miss Rindy after a short silence. “You needn’t tell me where you were born; I know that, and I know when your parents left you. What I want to know is how you lived and all that. You went to school, of course.”

“Oh, yes, I went to school, and I studied music and French at home. Mother and Father generally spoke it at meals. Even when I was quite small I could chatter away rather glibly, for they wouldn’t let me have things at table unless I asked for them in French.”

“Much good it will do you here. I don’t suppose there are two persons in town who know a word of it, unless maybe Jeremy Todd; the Todds live next door.”

“But you were in France and must speak it.”

“A smattering, merely a smattering. I picked up a little, naturally, but most of my dealings were with our own boys, and I had enough to do without studying French grammar. Did your mother do her own work? How big was your flat?”

“Only three rooms besides the bath. The studio and two rooms were all we needed. Mother got breakfast on a little gas stove; we had just any sort of lunch, and went out to dinner, sometimes to one place, sometimes to another; that was while Father lived. It was fun to decide which restaurant we could afford to go to. If Dad was flush, we’d go to a swell place; if he wasn’t, we’d go to a cheap cafeteria, but we didn’t mind. Often we’d have a late supper. Some of our artist friends would call up and say they were going to bring some specially nice thing from the delicatessen; then Mother would make coffee, and it would be awfully jolly.”

“Humph!” Miss Rindy grunted. “What did you do when you were not at school?”

“Oh, I just knocked around, practised, of course. Sometimes I sat for Dad when he had an illustration to make, and often I washed his brushes. Often, too, we’d all go out to some exhibition or a musicale. I loved the musicales. Mother had a lovely voice, you know; she sang in a church choir, and sometimes, after Dad went, she sang at private houses.”

“You still kept the studio while your father was in France, and after he came back?”

“Yes, for he was always hoping to get back to work, but he couldn’t, though he tried. You see it was shell-shock, and he was gassed, too.”

“I know, I know,” Miss Rindy breathed. “Poor boys, poor boys, how many I have seen suffer. You kept right on in the studio then while your mother lived.”

“Yes, for she couldn’t bear to give it up; we had all been so happy there, but at last the money gave out and everything had to go. I hated to see Dad’s pictures go for so little, and Mother’s piano, too, but it had to be. I think it was the grief and shock and all that which wore Mother out. The doctor said she had no resistance, and when she took a heavy cold and had pneumonia she hadn’t the strength to fight against it.” Ellen tried to choke back her sobs.

“Don’t let’s talk about it,” said Miss Rindy herself, feeling an emotion she did not want to show, but she laid aside her knitting and patted Ellen’s hand furtively. “Just tell me where you went after all that happened.”

“First to one and then to another, but artists aren’t usually very well off, though they do manage to have such jolly times. They were all just as kind and generous as could be, especially Mr. Barstow, one of Dad’s best friends. He had a long talk with me before he sailed for Europe, and said I was not to worry, that he would hunt up some of my relatives, for it was only right that they should know I was—homeless.”

“He was quite right,” said Miss Rindy, again picking up her knitting. “I was fond of your mother, and I should be ashamed to have her daughter dependent upon strangers. You don’t have to call yourself homeless any more, you understand, for here you are, and here you be as long as I have a roof over me and a crust to share. I own this house and I have a little income. It will be close cutting, but we sha’n’t starve, I reckon. As for clothes, they don’t take as much stuff as they used to, that’s one comfort. You’re how old, Ellen?”

“I am just fifteen.”

“Well, you’re not very big, and won’t need trains even when you are grown up, so I reckon we won’t have to lay out much on dry-goods. I must start you to school first thing, and between school hours you can be learning useful things. Can you sew?”

“A little; I used to help Mother sometimes.”

“That’s something. Can you cook?”

“I can make toast, and cocoa, and fudge.”

“Cake?”

“No, we bought cake when we wanted it. We had no real stove, you know.”

“To be sure. Funny way of living, but never mind, you’re never too old to learn, and we’ll begin next Saturday on gingerbread. What about clothes? Have you enough to last a while?”

“Ye-es, I think so; not many black things, and I want to wear black.”

“So you shall, for a while anyhow. What isn’t black can be dyed.”

“But dyeing is expensive, isn’t it?”

“You don’t suppose for one minute that I’d send anything to a dyer’s when you can get a package of dye for ten cents? No, sir. When I want coloring done I do it myself.”

“Oh!”

“Yes, ‘Oh!’ I imagine you didn’t know that things could be dyed at home.”

“Yes, I do know, for lots of the women artists do it when they want draperies or costumes and such things. Mother never did because there was always so much else to do, and because it wouldn’t have been convenient.”

“We’ll unpack your trunk to-morrow and then we can tell what can be dyed. You can help me with the stirring and rinsing. What about your mother’s things?”

“They are in a trunk Mrs. Austin is keeping for me. Mrs. Austin was one of our good friends.”

“Better send for the trunk. No doubt there will be many things in it that you can make use of.”

“Oh, but—Mother’s things!” The tears rushed to Ellen’s eyes. “I—I couldn’t.”

“There, child, there. No doubt you feel that way now, but in a little while you will love to wear them; you’ll feel that she would like you to, and it will bring her nearer.”

“Do you—do you really think so?”

“Yes, I do. It may be hard at first, but you mustn’t be over-sentimental; it doesn’t do for poor folks like us, and you can’t afford to hoard away anything that will be of practical use to you. We will attend to your trunk first; meantime send for the other.”

So as soon as Ellen’s trunk arrived Miss Rindy applied herself to the task of going over its contents. Most of the pretty, gay little dresses, with a faded coat, were laid aside for dyeing, and the colored stockings put with them.

“These tan shoes can be made black easily,” decided Miss Rindy; “so can that light felt hat. I can reshape the hat over a bowl or a tin bucket. Let me see those gloves. I can dye the cotton ones, but I’m not so sure that I’d better undertake the kid; we’ll see about that later. Can you knit, Ellen?”

“Yes, when it’s straight going.”

“Then this evening you can rip up that yellow sweater. I’ll tie the worsted in hanks and dye it black, then I’ll show you how to knit it over and you’ll have a good sweater for school. Do the dresses all fit you?”

“Some of them I’ve outgrown; both those blue serges are too small.”

“Then we’ll rip them up, dye them together, and make a good dress of them that will last you as long as you need to wear black. Give me that piece of blue ribbon; it will do to go around your hat when it’s dyed. There now! I don’t see but you’re all fixed up, or will be when we get everything ready.”

Ellen was quite overcome by these suggestions of her exceedingly resourceful cousin. “You’re a perfect wonder, Cousin Rindy,” she said.

“Well, I never was placed in the bric-à-brac class, pretty but useless, and I hope you’ll not be.”

“I’ll never be the first,” returned Ellen with a smile, “and I don’t want to be the second.”

“It’s up to you,” returned Miss Rindy. “We’ll start on these things to-morrow, Ellen. If it should suddenly turn cold, you’ll need the coat and hat. Those stockings you have on are disgracefully faded, such a dirty green as they are. Haven’t you any other black ones?”

“I have a couple of pairs, but they are soiled and need mending.”

“Then get them out. Here, pile all those things on one chair. Don’t leave them scattered around till your room looks like a second-hand clothing shop. First thing to do is to wash out those stockings, and, while they are drying, you can run down to the drug store and get the dye. This evening the stockings will be dry and you can darn them. If you are to start to school on Monday, your wardrobe must be in some sort of shape.”

Under her cousin’s directions Ellen soon had the stockings washed and hung out; then she started forth to get the dye. “But, you know, I haven’t an idea where the store is,” she remarked as she paused at the door.

“You can’t miss it or anything else in this place,” Miss Rindy answered. “Just follow your nose and it will take you anywhere you want. Walk straight down the street till you come to the church, the white one, not the gray. It is just opposite the store, and the store is opposite the church; it’s the post-office, too. You can’t miss it. Now, run along.”

Ellen started off to make her first venture into the one long street of the drowsy old town. It was early November, and a mat of red and gold leaves covered the boardwalk, for the street was not paved. Houses, set rather far apart, stood each side the street. Most had gardens in front where a few late chrysanthemums and scarlet salvia brightened the borders. Some more thrifty households had vegetable plats in which long, dry blades rustled from shorn cornstalks, and purple cabbages squatted in rows farther along. The air was full of the tang of fallen leaves, of apples, wind-fallen, rotting on the ground. Once in a while, from some kitchen where pickling was going on, spicy odors were borne.

As Ellen entered the general store she noticed that it held a conglomeration of all sorts of goods. The drugs were on a row of shelves at the farther end of a long counter, neighboring the piles of gingham, flannelettes, and such dry-goods. Next came canned articles and groceries. These led the way to hardware, which followed shoes. At the extreme end of the store was the post-office. The middle of the store was occupied by such vegetables and fruits as were in season. In the glass cases were notions, candies, and stationery. The loft up-stairs was given up to crockery and house furnishings.

Ellen stood just inside the door for a moment and looked around. She had never seen just such a place in her life, and wondered how on earth the proprietors managed to keep track of such a mixed stock. There was no one in the store, but presently a voice from behind the post-office box called out, “I’ll be there in just a minute,” and before long a slim, dark-eyed little woman appeared. “He’s gone to the city,” she explained, “and I’m kind of short-handed, for the boy has gone out with the orders. What was it you wanted?”

“I want some black dye.”

“Who’s it for?”

“Miss Orinda Crump.”

“Oh, Rindy Crump. What’s she going to dye?”

“Several things.”

“Silk, cotton, wool, or mixed goods?”

“Why, all kinds, I think.”

“Then I’d better give you a package for each, and if she doesn’t need all, she can return what she doesn’t use. Kin of hers?”

“I’m her cousin.”

“Making her a visit?”

“Why, ye-es. I’m going to live with her.”

“You are? I did hear somebody say last night that a power of Rindy’s kinfolks came down yesterday. You don’t mean—— But never mind, I won’t ask any more questions. Rindy can tell me all about it. What did you say your name was?”

Ellen hadn’t said, but she gave the desired information.

“You don’t favor the Crumps,” continued Mrs. Perry; “none of them have red hair.”

“I’m like my father,” replied Ellen, tossing back her shining, copper-colored locks.

“He was a painter by trade, wasn’t he?”

“An artist.”

“Same thing. Did he do signs or houses?”

“Neither. He painted beautiful pictures.”

“Not much money in that, I reckon. He’d better have stuck to the houses. Painters get good wages these days. Well, Ellen, come again. I suppose you’ll be running down for the mail every evening. It’ll be nice for Rindy to have somebody to go on her errands.”

Ellen picked up her package and stalked out, her face aflame and rage in her heart. The red and yellow leaves made no appeal to her. She saw no gay chrysanthemums on her way back. She shut the door savagely as she entered the house, threw the package on the table, and tossed her hat on a chair. Then she walked out to the kitchen where Miss Rindy was.

“Well,” said her cousin, “did you get it?”

“Yes, Cousin Rindy, I did,” Ellen responded. “That horrid woman said you’d probably want all the kinds there are. If you didn’t need them all, you could return whichever package you didn’t want. She is the most inquisitive person I ever saw, and I just loathe her.”

“Whewee! What a pepper-jig you’re in. When you’ve known Maria Perry as long as I have you’ll find it isn’t worth while to get mad with her. She can ask questions, I’ll admit, but she doesn’t mean any harm by it. She’s the chief purveyor of news in the town, and everybody looks to her for it, just as if she were a headline on a newspaper.”

“She asked me if my father painted houses or signs. The idea of such a thing! When I told her he painted pictures, she impertinently said she reckoned there wasn’t much money in it.”

“There wasn’t was there?”

“Sometimes there was a great deal.”

“But it wasn’t what one might call a satisfying, steady income. Never you mind, Ellen, don’t look so much like a thundercloud. Go cool off, child. You’ll have to get used to being talked over; it’s the prerogative of the dwellers in a small place like this. A full description of you will be broadcast all over the town before night.”

“Would you call my hair very red?” asked Ellen anxiously.

“You don’t suppose it will be reported that it is black or gray, do you?”

“Daddy loved it, so did all the artists. They used to say it was real Titian color.”

“That may be, but I don’t reckon there are many of our neighbors who know anything about Titian, so you’ll have to get used to being called red-headed. Just keep your hair brushed and tidy-looking; that’s all you’ll have to do. It doesn’t matter about looks. I want you to be sensible and useful, Ellen.”

“Useful Ellen; that’s what Daddy used to call me sometimes when I brought him a piece of toast I had made, or a cup of tea,” said Ellen dreamily.

“Well, I hope you will carry on and always deserve the name.”

“Who are the next-door neighbors?” asked Ellen, changing the subject. “I saw an odd-looking little man who seemed a bit lame.”

“That was Jeremy Todd. He is a musician, plays the ’cello and gives lessons, besides being the organist at our church.”

“Oh, does he? How lovely! Mr. Barstow bought the dear old violin that Daddy played. I was beginning to play a little, too, but——” Ellen paused and drew a long sigh. “Are the dyes all right, Cousin Rindy?”

“Yes, quite right. We’ll start in to-morrow and get your things done.”

“Who lives on the other side of us, Cousin Rindy?”

“The Dove-Hales. The Craig-Hales live the other side of town.”

“I saw a darling little boy in there.”

“Billy? Yes, he is a dear. We all call him Dovey. Now put away your hat and coat and help me pare these apples. We’re going to have a Brown Betty for dinner.”

As Ellen turned to hang up her hat and coat she stopped to ask, “Is that woman always in the store?”

“Not always; she’s generally in the post-office,” Miss Rindy smiled, “and she won’t like it if you interrupt her when she’s getting dinner or about to sit down to supper.”

“But the post-office, isn’t it always expected that there will be some one there to wait on you?”

“It isn’t what you expect, it is what Maria thinks about it. Her affairs are much more important than the government’s. A batch of biscuits that might burn is more to be considered than all the letters you or I might write. But don’t let’s find fault with Maria; she has about all she can do to run her house, the post-office, and, often, the store. Mil Perry is a lazy lout and piles all he can upon her thin shoulders. It must be trying to have your biscuits burn up just because some one wants a penny post-card. Get your apron, Ellen, before you sit down.”