"Don't know what he's after, I'm sure," replied the man. "But he's sent down enough furniture an' truck to stock a hotel, an' I want to know ef you'll go over an' put it in the rooms, an' straighten things out." "Me!" "Why, yes. You've lived in cities some, an' know how citified things go. Con-twist it, Ethel, there's things in the bunch that neither I ner Nick Thorne ever hearn tell of, much less knowin' what they're used for." The girl laughed. "When are the folks coming?" she asked. "When I git things in shape. They've sent some money down to pay fer what's done, so you won't have to work fer nuthin'." "I will, though," responded the girl, in a cheery tone. "It will delight me to handle pretty things. Are Nora and Tom still there?" "Oh, yes. I had orders to turn the Huckses out, ye see; but I didn't do it." "I'm glad of that," she returned, brightly "Perhaps we may arrange it so they can stay. Old Nora's a dear." "But she's blind." "She knows every inch of the Wegg house, and does her work more thoroughly than many who can see. When do you want me, Peggy?" "Soon's you kin come." "Then I'll be over tomorrow morning." At that moment a wild roar, like that of a beast, came from the house. The sad faced woman ran down a passage; a door slammed, and then all was quiet again. McNutt hitched uneasily from the wooden foot to the good one. "How's ol' Will?" he enquired, in a low voice. "Grandfather's about as usual," replied the girl, with trained composure. "Still crazy as a bedbug?" "At times he becomes a bit violent; but those attacks never last long." "Don't s'pose I could see him?" ventured the agent, still in hesitating tones. "Oh, no; he has seen no visitor since Captain Wegg died." "Well, good-bye, Ethel. See you at the farm in the mornin'." The girl sat for a long time after McNutt had driven away, seemingly lost in revery. "Poor Joe!" she sighed, at last. "Poor, foolish Joe. I wonder what has become of him?" CHAPTER IV. ETHEL MAKES PREPARATION. The Wegg homestead stood near the edge of a thin forest of pines through which Little Bill Creek wound noisily on its way to the lake. At the left was a slope on which grew a neglected orchard of apple and pear trees, their trunks rough and gnarled by the struggle to outlive many severe winters. There was a rude, rocky lane in front, separated from the yard by a fence of split pine rails, but the ground surrounding the house was rich enough to grow a profusion of June grass. The farm was of very little value. Back of the yard was a fairly good berry patch, but aside from that some two acres of corn and a small strip of timothy represented all that was fertile of the sixty acres the place contained.