"My father says an old lady is going to live here," volunteered
Francis Rider, a freckle-faced lad of ten or twelve. "She lives all
by herself, and she doesn't like noise. Her name is Miss Putnam."
Neither, they were to learn, did Miss Putnam like company,
especially that of boys and girls.
When the last piece of furniture had been carried in, and the van
had driven creakingly off down the street, the old lady, with her
head tied in the towel, was seen approaching the fence.
"That's Miss Putnam," whispered Francis.
"Get off that fence!" cried Miss Putnam, brandishing her broom.
"Get off! I'm not going to have my fence broken down by a parcel
of young ones. Go on home, I tell you!"
The children scrambled down and scattered like leaves. Francis,
when he was a safe distance up the street, put out his tongue and
made a face at Miss Putnam. The old lady continued to stand by the
gate and shake her broom threateningly as long as there was a
child in sight.
"The Collins house is rented at last," said Daddy Morrison at the
supper table that night. "I came through there on my way home from
the station, and there was a light in the kitchen window. I wonder
who has taken it?"
"I know, Daddy," answered Louise quickly.
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