evidently
expecting nobody to meet her at this time of day. A lanky man, with
grizzled brows and untrimmed beard, got up slowly from the stringpiece
of the wharf and slouched forward to meet Janice Day.

"I reckon you be Broxton's gal, eh?" he queried, his eyes twinkling not
unkindly. "Ye sort er favor him--an' he favored his mother in more ways
than one. You're Janice Day?"

"Oh, yes indeed! And you're my Uncle Jason?" cried the girl, impulsively
seizing Mr. Day's hand. There was nothing about this man that at all
reminded Janice of her father; yet the thought of their really being so
closely related to each other was comforting. "I'm so glad to see you,"
she continued. "I hope you'll like me, Uncle Jason--and I hope Aunt
Almira will like me. And there is a cousin, too, isn't there--a boy?
Dear me! I've been looking forward to meeting you all ever since I left
Greensboro, and been wondering what sort of people you would be."

"Wal," drawled Uncle Jason, rather staggered by the way Janice "ran on,"
"we reckon on makin' ye comferble. Looks like we'd have ye with us some
spell, too. Broxton writ me that he didn't know how long he'd be
gone--down there in Mexico."

"No. Poor Daddy couldn't tell. The business must be 'tended to, I
s'pose----"

"Right crazy of him to go there," grunted Uncle Jason. "May git shot any
minute. Ain't _no_ money wuth that, I don't believe."

This rather tactless speech made the girl suddenly look grave; but it
did not quench her vivacity. She was staring about the dock, interested
in everything she saw, when Uncle Jason drawled:

"I s'pose ye got a trunk, Janice?"

"Oh, yes. Here is the check," and she began to skirmish in her purse.

"Wal! there ain't no hurry. Marty'll come down by-me-by with the
wheelbarrer and git it for ye."

"But my goodness!" exclaimed the girl from Greensboro. "I haven't
anything fit to put on in this bag; everything got rumpled so aboard the
train. I'll want to change just as soon as I get to the house, Uncle."

"Wal!" Uncle Jason was staggered. He had given up thinking quickly years
before. This was an emergency that floored him.

"Why! isn't that the expressman there? And can't he take my trunk right
up to the house?" continued the girl.

"Ya-as; that's Walky Dexter," admitted Mr. Day.

A stout, red-faced man was backing a raw-boned nag in front of a farm
wagon, down upon the wharf and toward a little heap of baggage that had
been run ashore from the