“Wal, I dunno. She’s got steady company now, and her mind seems to be set on him. She’d like to do it fer yer ma, though, I’m sure. Ye’d best ast her.” He led the way through an uncarpeted hall into the kitchen, where a tired-faced woman and a slatternly girl were at work. Barbara cast a quick look at the latter, and her heart sank. The Vegetable Man’s daughter was thirty-odd years old. She was thin and sallow and stupid-looking. Her eyes were crossed, and a pair of large glasses, apparently worn to hide the defect, succeeded only in making it more prominent. She listened to Barbara’s recital with little show of interest. “I dunno,” she said finally, “as there’s any need I should work out.” Again Barbara offered inducements. “Do you let your girls have company?” asked the Vegetable Man’s daughter, with a simper. “Oh, yes, certainly,” answered Barbara. “Steady company, I mean,” said the girl. “If they prefer that kind,” said Barbara, smiling in spite of herself. “And all their evenings?” “Yes,” replied Barbara. “And Sunday afternoons to supper?” Barbara hesitated. “Yes,” she agreed, finally. “Well, I dunno,” said the girl. The tired-faced woman put in a word:— “You might go and help her out a bit, Libbie. Then you could buy those white shoes you’ve been wanting.” “Well, maybe,” assented the girl. “When do you want me?” “Right now,” said Barbara. Ten minutes later, Mr. Hopkins accompanied the three girls to the gate, lending his presence while Barbara untied the horse and cramped the buggy. “Good-by, Libbie,” he said; “write us frequent, and don’t work too hard. Give my regards to yer pa, Miss Barb’ry. I ain’t never forgot the time he pulled me out of noomonia. There ain’t nothing too big fer me to do fer him; tell him to come out some time, and pick gooseberries.” * * * * * Great-Aunt Sarah reached Auburn the next day. No telegram had heralded the hour of her coming, and consequently there was no one at the station to meet her on arrival. At noon on Friday, while Barbara was convincing the Vegetable Man’s daughter that steak should be broiled instead of fried, a carriage rolled up to the door. Peanuts Barker, still in Banker Willowby’s top hat, deposited a trunk on the front walk, and a stout lady, with two methodical puffs of shiny black hair in under her bonnet, and three small boys dismounted. At the sound of the wheels there was a general scattering of the clan. Gassy, whose hatred for Aunt Sarah was general, and for the boys specific, retired to the coal-cellar, David hurried to put his dear books out of reach of marauding hands, and Jack meanly abandoned the scene of action for an upstairs window. Barbara and the Kid were the only members of the family to greet the guests.