AUNT JANE'S NIECES - Complete 10 Book Collection. Edith Van Dyne

the mare walked on. His questioner also started and paced beside him.

      "Far from here?"

      "A mile, perhaps."

      "They said it was three from the village, but I guess I've come a dozen a'ready."

      The boy did not reply to this. There was nothing offensive in the man's manner. He spoke with an easy familiarity that made it difficult not to respond with equal frank cordiality, and there was a shrewd expression upon his wrinkled, smooth-shaven face that stamped him a man who had seen life in many of its phases.

      Kenneth, who resented the companionship of most people, seemed attracted by the man, and hesitated to gallop on and leave him.

      "Know Jane Merrick?" asked the stranger.

      The boy nodded.

      "Like her?"

      "I hate her," he said, savagely.

      The man laughed, a bit uneasily.

      "Then it's the same Jane as ever," he responded, with a shake of his grizzled head. "Do you know, I sort o' hoped she'd reformed, and I'd be glad to see her again. They tell me she's got money."

      The boy looked at him in surprise.

      "She owns Elmhurst, and has mortgages on a dozen farms around here, and property in New York, and thousands of dollars in the bank," he said. "Aunt Jane's rich."

      "Aunt Jane?" echoed the man, quickly. "What's your name, lad?"

      "Kenneth Forbes."

      A shake of the head.

      "Don't recollect any Forbeses in the family."

      "She isn't really my aunt," said the boy, "and she doesn't treat me as an aunt, either; but she's my guardian, and I've always called her Aunt, rather than say Miss Merrick."

      "She's never married, has she?"

      "No. She was engaged to my Uncle Tom, who owned Elmhurst. He was killed in a railway accident, and then it was found he'd left her all he had."

      "I see."

      "So, when my parents died, Aunt Jane took me for Uncle Tom's sake, and keeps me out of charity."

      "I see." Quite soberly, this time.

      The boy slid off the mare and walked beside the little man, holding the bridle over his arm. They did not speak again for some moments.

      Finally the stranger asked:

      "Are Jane's sisters living—Julia and Violet?"

      "I don't know. But there are two of her nieces at Elmhurst."

      "Ha! Who are they?"

      "Girls," with bitterness. "I haven't seen them."

      The stranger whistled.

      "Don't like girls, I take it?"

      "No; I hate them."

      Another long pause. Then the boy suddenly turned questioner.

      "You know Aunt—Miss Merrick, sir?"

      "I used to, when we were both younger."

      "Any relation, sir?"

      "Just a brother, that's all."

      Kenneth stopped short, and the mare stopped, and the little man, with a whimsical smile at the boy's astonishment, also stopped.

      "I didn't know she had a brother, sir—that is, living."

      "She had two; but Will's dead, years ago, I'm told. I'm the other."

      "John Merrick?"

      "That's me. I went west a long time ago; before you were born, I guess. We don't get much news on the coast, so I sort of lost track of the folks back east, and I reckon they lost track of me, for the same reason."

      "You were the tinsmith?"

      "The same. Bad pennies always return, they say. I've come back to look up the family and find how many are left. Curious sort of a job, isn't it."

      "I don't know. Perhaps it's natural," replied the boy, reflectively.

       "But I'm sorry you came to Aunt Jane first."

      "Why?"

      "She's in bad health—quite ill, you know—and her temper's dreadful.

       Perhaps she—she—"

      "I know. But I haven't seen her in years; and, after all, she's my sister. And back at the old home, where I went first, no one knew anything about what had become of the family except Jane. They kept track of her because she suddenly became rich, and a great lady, and that was a surprising thing to happen to a Merrick. We've always been a poor lot, you know."

      The boy glanced at the bundle, pityingly, and the little man caught the look and smiled his sweet, cheery smile.

      "My valise was too heavy to carry," he said; "so I wrapped up a few things in case Jane wanted me to stay over night. And that's why I didn't get a horse at the livery, you know. Somebody'd have to take it back again."

      "I'm sure she'll ask you to stay, sir. And if she doesn't, you come out to the stable and let me know, and I'll drive you to town again. Donald—that's the coachman—is my friend, and he'll let me have the horse if I ask him."

      "Thank you, lad," returned the man, gratefully. "I thought a little exercise would do me good, but this three miles has seemed like thirty to me!"

      "We're here at last," said the boy, turning: into the drive-way. "Seeing that you're her brother, sir, I advise you to go right up to the front door and ring the bell."

      "I will," said the man.

      "I always go around the back way, myself."

      "I see."

      The boy turned away, but in a moment halted again. His interest in

       Miss Jane's brother John was extraordinary.

      "Another thing," he said, hesitating.

      "Well?"

      "You'd better not say you met me, you know. It wouldn't be a good introduction. She hates me as much as I hate her."

      "Very good, my lad. I'll keep mum."

      The boy nodded, and turned away to lead Nora to the stable. The man looked after him a moment, and shook his head, sadly.

      "Poor boy!" he whispered.

      Then he walked up to the front door and rang the bell.

      CHAPTER XI.

       THE MAD GARDENER.

       Table of Contents

      "This seems to be a lazy place," said Louise, as she stood in the doorway of Beth's room to bid her good night. "I shall sleep until late in the morning, for I don't believe Aunt Jane will be on exhibition before noon."

      "At home I always get up at six o'clock," answered Beth.

      "Six o'clock! Good gracious! What for?"

      "To study my lessons and help get the breakfast."

      "Don't you keep a maid?"

      "No," said Beth, rather surlily; "we have hard work to keep ourselves."

      "But you must be nearly through with school by this time. I finished my education ages ago."

      "Did you graduate?" asked Beth.

      "No; it wasn't worth while," declared Louise, complacently. "I'm sure I know as much as most girls do, and there are more useful lessons to be learned from real life than from books."

      "Good night," said Beth.

      "Good night," answered the older girl, and shut the