She was, in spite of her
tinyness, a very striking-looking personage; she was dressed in
unrelieved black, had snow-white hair, a dead-white face, and snapping,
vivid, coal-black eyes. She looked as amazed as the other two, but Rilla
realized that she didn't look cross.
Rilla also was realizing that something was wrong--fearfully wrong.
Then the man said, more gruffly than ever, "Come now. Who are you and
what business have you here?"
Rilla raised herself on one elbow, looking and feeling hopelessly
bewildered and foolish. She heard the old black-and-white lady in the
background chuckle to herself. "She must be real," Rilla thought. "I
can't be dreaming her." Aloud she gasped,
"Isn't this Theodore Brewster's place?"
"No," said the big woman, speaking for the first time, "this place
belongs to us. We bought it from the Brewsters last fall. They moved to
Greenvale. Our name is Chapley."
Poor Rilla fell back on her pillow, quite overcome.
"I beg your pardon," she said. "I--I--thought the Brewsters lived
here. Mrs. Brewster is a friend of mine. I am Rilla Blythe--Dr.
Blythe's daughter from Glen St. Mary. I--I was going to town with my--
my--this little boy--and he fell off the train--and I jumped off
after him--and nobody knew of it. I knew we couldn't get home last
night and a storm was coming up--so we came here and when we found
nobody at home--we--we--just got in through the window and--and--
made ourselves at home.
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