"I've heard that, too," she said. "But it was
another Scotland." Then: "So your name is Llewellen?"
"Marg'ret Llewellen."
"I've heard your grandfather is sick," said Nan, remembering
Tom's report of the health of the community when he had met her
and her uncle at Hobart Forks.
"Yes. He's got the tic-del-rew," declared Margaret, rather
unfeelingly. "Aunt Matildy says he's allus creakin' round like a
rusty gate-hinge."
"Why! That doesn't sound very nice," objected Nan. Don't you
love your grandfather?"
"Not much," said this perfectly frank young savage. "He's so
awfully wizzled."
"'Wizzled'?" repeated Nan, puzzled.
"Yes. His face is all wizzled up like a dried apple."
"But you love your aunt Matilda?" gasped Nan.
"Well, she's wizzled some," confessed Margaret. Then she said:
"I don't like faces like hern and Marm Sherwood's. I like your
face. It's smooth."
Nan had noticed that this half-wild girl was of beautifully fair
complexion herself, and aside from her pop eyes was quite petty.
But she was a queer little thing.
"You've been to Chicago, ain't you?" asked Margaret suddenly.
"We came through Chicago on our way up here from my home. We
stayed one night there," Nan replied.
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