“Then I would go down the platform and take the common car for Greentown.  Soon we would be off and I would ask the conductor if Greentown was the station where one could change and drive to Beulah, darling little Beulah, shiny-rivered Beulah; not breathing a word about the yellow house for fear he would jump off the train and rent it first.  Then he would say he never heard of Beulah.  I would look pityingly at him, but make no reply because it would be no use, and anyway I know Greentown is the changing place, because I’ve asked three men before; but Cousin Ann always likes to make conductors acknowledge they don’t know as much as she does.

“Then I present a few peanuts or peppermints to a small boy, and hold an infant for a tired mother, because this is what good children do in the Sunday-school books, but I do not mingle much with the passengers because my brow is furrowed with thought and I am travelling on important business.”

You can well imagine that by this time Mother Carey has taken out her darning, and Kathleen her oversewing, to which she pays little attention because she so adores Nancy’s tales.  Peter has sat like a small statue ever since his quick ear caught the sound of a story.  His eyes follow Nancy as she walks up and down improvising, and the only interruption she ever receives from her audience is Kathleen’s or Mother Carey’s occasional laugh at some especially ridiculous sentence.

“The hours fly by like minutes,” continues Nancy, stopping by the side window and twirling the curtain tassel absently.  “I scan the surrounding country to see if anything compares with Beulah, and nothing does.  No such river, no such trees, no such well, no such old oaken bucket, and above all no such Yellow House.  All the other houses I see are but as huts compared with the Yellow House of Beulah.  Soon the car door opens; a brakeman looks in and calls in a rich baritone voice, ’Greentown!  Greentown!  Do-not-leave-any-passles in the car!’ And if you know beforehand what he is going to say you can understand him quite nicely, so I take up my bag and go down the aisle with dignity.  ’Step lively, Miss!’ cries the brakeman, but I do not heed him; it is not likely that a person renting country houses will move save with majesty.  Alighting, I inquire if there is any conveyance for Beulah, and there is, a wagon and a white horse.  I ask the driver boldly to drive me to the Colonel’s office.  He does not ask which Colonel, or what Colonel, he simply says, ‘Colonel Foster, I s’pose,’ and I say, ‘Certainly.’  We arrive at the office and when I introduce myself as Captain Carey’s daughter I receive a glad welcome.  The Colonel rings a bell and an aged beldame approaches, making a deep curtsy and offering me a beaker of milk, a crusty loaf, a few venison pasties, and a cold goose stuffed with humming birds.  When I have reduced these to nothingness I ask if the yellow house on the outskirts of the village is still vacant, and the Colonel replies that it is, at which unexpected but hoped-for answer I fall into a deep swoon.  When I awake the aged Colonel is bending over me, his long white goat’s beard tickling my chin.”