Sheila pointed to a seat.
"Do sit down," she urged. "It is a long walk from the port."
"You said it! And after riding over from Paulmouth in that dinky old
stagecoach, too," went on the stranger, as though holding Sheila
responsible for some measure of her discomfort. "Say, ain't the
folks home?" She cast a sour look around the premises. "Gee! It's a
lonesome place in winter, I bet."
"Did you wish to see Mrs. Ball?" asked Sheila, eying the visitor
with nothing more than curiosity.
"I guess so. She is Mrs. Prudence Ball, isn't she?"
"Yes. Mrs. Ball and the captain have gone away for the day. I am
ever so sorry. You wished to see her particularly?"
"I guess I did." The stranger looked her over with more interest.
"Say, how old are the Balls?"
The abrupt question drew a more penetrating look from Sheila. The
visitor certainly was not Cape bred. Her smart cheapness did not
attract Sheila at all. There was something so unwholesome about her
that the observer had difficulty in suppressing a shudder. Yet her
prettiness was orchidlike. But there are poisonous orchids.
"They are quite old people," Sheila said, finally answering the
question. "Cap'n Ira is over seventy and Prudence is not far from
that age.
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