"Well, I'll get even with Elias," she blustered. "I'm fattening some hogs for him, an' I'll tuck what I've lost on the eggs right on to 'em. He shall pay that cent one way or 'nother 'fore he gets through. He needs to think to beat me. Sixty-seven cents, and I never knowin' it!" Then the words brought still another bitter possibility to the woman's mind. "You didn't mention to the Howes I was gettin' only sixty-six cents a dozen for eggs, did you?" she asked, wheeling on Lucy. "No, I didn't speak of price." "That's good," said her aunt, slightly mollified. "At least Martin Howe can't go crowin' over me--that is, unless Elias Barnes tells him. 'Twould be exactly like Elias to do it. He is just that mean." Although Ellen did not own it, Lucy knew that had the case been reversed, she would have been the first to crow unhesitatingly not only over Elias but over Martin. Pityingly she looked at the old woman. "If you ever get the chance to speak to those Howe women again," her aunt concluded, with affected nonchalance, "you might tell 'em we never used their eggs. You could say I smashed 'em. I'd like Martin Howe to know it." CHAPTER VI ELLEN ENCOUNTERS AN ENIGMA Nevertheless, in spite of this bellicose admonition, Lucy had no opportunity during the next few weeks to deliver to the Howes her aunt's message, for Ellen, feeling that she was now blessed with an able assistant whose time must not be wasted, seized upon the mild May weather to deluge her home from top to bottom with soapsuds, sapolio, and fresh paint. From morning until night Lucy worked, scrubbing and scouring, brushing and beating. As she toiled up the stairs, carrying pails of steaming water, she caught through the windows glimpses of the valley, its verdant depths threaded by the river's silvery windings. The heavens had never been bluer. Everywhere gladness was in the air, and the thrill of it filled the girl with longing to be in the heart of its magic. Ellen, however, was entirely oblivious to the miracle taking place in the universe about her. The glory of the awakening season, with its hosts of unfurling leaves and opening buds, was nothing to her. Had she not been dependent on the sun to make her garden grow, she would probably never have lifted her face to its golden rays. Only as nature furthered her projects did she acknowledge its presence. The Howes seemed, to some extent at least, to share this disregard for the out-of-door world, for like Ellen they, too, surrendered themselves to a household upheaval quite as merciless as that of the Websters. No sooner would Martin disappear with horse and plow in the direction of the garden than the three sisters could be seen feverishly dragging mattresses on to the piazza roof for a sunning; shaking blankets; and beating rugs.