"In a short time, you will be back in harness and feel the same keen delight in these old possessions as aforetime."

Polly appreciated the sense of Mr. Ashby's little lecture, but Eleanor still felt disappointed with her purchases. And Dodo laughed outright at the old pewter she had gone wild over in England, and now scorned in America.

That evening Mr. Fabian explained, carefully, about the times and customs of the purchases that represented certain people. He wove a tale of romance about each piece of furniture the girls had delighted in, and enhanced their interest in the dishes and other small objects they had collected that summer, until the three disappointed owners felt a renewed attraction in the articles.

Mr. Ashby was present, but he said nothing until Mr. Fabian had ended.

Then he added in a suggestive manner: "Fabian, what do you say to the girls taking short trips to the country, each week, to hunt up such antiques as can be found in out-of-the-way nooks all through New England?"

The girls perked up their ears at this, and waited to hear Mr. Fabian's reply.

"If they had a car and someone to accompany them on such excursions, I think they would thoroughly enjoy it."

"Dalken has three cars--two limousines, you know; and he told me that he wished he could prevail upon the girls to make use of one, instead of his leaving it in a garage to eat up its value in rent. I thought of this way to give the girls many interesting quests, and make use of the car at the same time, so I mentioned it to him. He was delighted and wants the girls to try the plan," explained Mr. Ashby.

"And I will offer myself as chaperone," hastily added Mrs. Fabian.

"If I could only be included in these outings I should love it," laughed Nancy Fabian.

"You are! Any one who belongs to us, must consider themselves as invited," said Polly, laughingly.

So an outing for Sat.u.r.day was planned, that night, and Mrs. Fabian and Nancy were to manage the details for the girls.

"We will choose a likely country-side for our first trial," remarked Mrs.

Fabian, looking at her husband for advice.

"That's hard sense," laughed he. "But where is such a spot?"

"Somewhere in New England," ventured Nancy.

"That's as ambiguous as 'Somewhere in France,'" retorted Polly.

"Not when you consider that New England begins just the other side of the city-line of Portchester," said Mr. Fabian.

"But there are no antiques to be found in Rye, Portchester or Greenwich, in these days of amateur collectors hunting over those sections,"

remarked Mrs. Fabian.

"You are not limited to those nearby towns; but you can travel fifty miles in the inland sections in a short time, and stop at simple little farm-houses to inquire, as we did this summer while touring England. I wager you'll come home with enough trophies of war to start you off again, in a day or two," explained Mr. Fabian.

On Sat.u.r.day morning, Mrs. Fabian packed an auto-kit with delectable sandwiches, cakes and other dainties, and the party of amateur collectors started out on their quest. The chauffeur smiled at their eagerness to arrive at some place on the Boston Post Road that might suggest that it led to their Mecca. He kept on, however, until after pa.s.sing through Stamford, then he turned to the left and followed a road that seemed to leave all suburban life behind, in a very short time.

"Where are you taking us, Carl?" asked Polly, curiously.

"On a road that Mr. Ashby told me about. He has never stopped at these places, but he thinks you will find something, along here."

After several more miles had been reeled off, the eager and watchful pa.s.sengers in the car glimpsed a low one-story farm-house, with plenty of acreage around it. The two-story box-like addition built at the rear and hooked up to the tiny dwelling that almost squatted on the road itself, seemed to apologise for the insignificance of its mother-house.

"Slow up, Carl. Let's look this place over," called Mrs. Fabian.

The automobile came to a stop and the ladies leaned out to inspect the possibilities in such an old place. A girl of ten came around the corner of the box-house and stood gazing at the people in the car.

Carl seemed to be no novice in this sort of outing, and he called to the girl: "Hey! Is your mudder home?"

The girl nodded without saying a word.

"All right! Tell her to come out, a minute."

Mrs. Fabian hastily interpolated with: "Oh, we'd better go in and ask for a drink, Carl."

Carl laughed. "Just as you say, Missus. But dese farmer people don't stand on fussin'. You'se can ask her right out if she wants to sell any old thing she's got in the attic or cellar."

"How do you know?" asked Polly, smilingly.

"'Cause Mr. Dalken got the fever of collectin' after you folks went to Urope. And many a time I've sat and laughed at his way of getting things."

"Oh! That's why you knew where to drive us, eh?" said Eleanor.

"No, 'cause he never come this road, yet. He mapped it out, once, and said he would try it some day. That's why he told me which road to foller today."

The girl had disappeared but was coming back by this time. She climbed upon the picket gate and hung over it, as she called out: "My ma's kneadin' bread an' can't get out, this minit. She says if you want somethun, fer you to come in and see _her_!"

This invitation sufficed for all five to instantly get out of the car and lift the latch on the gate. The girl never budged from her perch, but permitted the visitors to swing her back as the gate was opened.

"Go right to the side door," advised she, holding on to the pickets.

As invited, the collectors went to the side door and Mrs. Fabian knocked timidly. "Come in!" said a shrill voice from within.

The lady of the house had plump arms elbow-deep in dough. She glanced up and nodded in a business-like manner. "Did yer come fer fresh aigs?"

asked she, punching the dough positively.

"If you have any for sale, I should like to take a dozen," returned Mrs.

Fabian, politely. Polly and Dodo stared in surprise at their chaperone, but Eleanor and Nancy comprehended at once, why this reply was made.

"Wait a minute, will yuh, and I'll get this job off my hands afore I go fer the aigs."

Eleanor laughed humorously as she remarked: "It looks like dough on your hands."

The woman laughed appreciatively, while the others smiled. "That's right!

It's dough, all right. I s'pose you folks are from nearby, eh?"

"Not very far away," returned Mrs. Fabian. "We are out on a pleasure jaunt this morning, but I saw your farm and so we decided to ask your little girl if you were in."

"That's right! I tole my man to put a sign out on the letter-box fer pa.s.sers-by to see how I had aigs to sell; but he is that procrastinatin'--he puts off anythun' 'til it's too late."

The woman was sc.r.a.ping the bits of dough from her hands as she spoke, and this done, she sprinkled flour over the top of the soft lump in the pan and covered it with a piece of old linen cloth. As she took it to a warm corner behind the stove, she added: "Do you'se know! Abe was late fer our weddin'. But I knew him for procrastinatin', even in them days, so I made everyone wait. He come in an 'nour behind time, sayin' he had to walk from his place 'cause his horse was too lame to ride. That's Abe all over, in everythun."

The house-keeper finished her task and turned to her callers. "Now then!

Do yuh like white er brown aigs?"

"White ones, please," returned Mrs. Fabian.