“I—I don’t know,” answered Posey, realizing suddenly and with confusion, how very vague her ideas were, and what a wild undertaking hers was. “I didn’t know—I thought—I hoped—that I might find somebody—somewhere, who would let me live with them. I can wash dishes, and iron, and sweep, and churn, and bake apple pies and ginger-cake—Mrs. Hagood taught me—and do lots of things about the house,” sadly feeling that her list was after all but a short one. “I would try _so_ hard to suit. Don’t you think I could find such a place?” and she looked in his face appealingly. “I should think so,” he answered after a moment’s pause. For with all his boyishness there was about him a certain thoughtfulness and readiness of decision, which led Posey to regard him with an instinctive trust and reliance. “At any rate,” he added, “you might try; I don’t think of anything better just now that you could do.” All this time there had been a frequent splashing and stamping down below them in the creek, and several times the boy had looked over the side of the bridge to call, “Whoa, there, whoa,” or “Stand steady, Billy.” “Let’s see,” he went on, “you’re about eight miles from Horsham now,—you must have clipped it pretty lively, but you look awful tuckered, and I don’t believe you could make another eight miles.” “I—I’m afraid not,” Posey sadly agreed, for having once stopped it seemed to her that she never could start on again. “And as you’re running away I suppose you want to get as far away as you can?” “Yes, indeed, I do.” “Well, then, I guess I will give you a lift. Of course you don’t know me, but my name’s Ben Pancost, and I’m a tin peddler,” the last with an air of business-like pride. “You don’t look old enough to be a tin peddler,” was Posey’s comment. “All I ever saw were old men with hook noses.” “I was fifteen last March. I guess Mr. Bruce thinks that will do, at any rate I’ve been on one of his wagons all summer. I stayed last night at that house,” indicating by a jerk of his thumb the red house on the knoll, “and this morning one of the wagon tires seemed loose, so I drove into the creek to let Billy drink, and swell up the wheel. You saw my red cart as you came along, didn’t you?” “No; the willows must have hid it. I didn’t know that there was anybody anywhere near, that was why I was scared when you looked around the corner of the bridge. And, oh, it’s so good of you to let me ride!” But Ben had a boy’s horror of thanks. “I guess by this time the wheel is soaked,” he hastened to say, “so I’ll drive out of the creek and then this train will be ready to pull out.”