There were shelves and cupboards and other conveniences, yet
with no ostentation of refinement to frighten her rustic sensibilities.
Then he pushed open another door leading into a shed and called "Waya."
A stout, undersized Indian woman, fitted with a coarse cotton gown, but
cleaner and more presentable than the girl's one frock, appeared in the
doorway. "This is Waya, who attends to the cooking and cleaning," he
said; "and by the way, what is your name?"
"Libby Jones."
He took a small memorandum book and a "stub" of pencil from his pocket.
"Elizabeth Jones," he said, writing it down. The girl interposed a long
red hand.
"No," she interrupted sharply, "not Elizabeth, but Libby, short for
Lib'rty."
"Liberty?"
"Yes."
"Liberty Jones, then. Well, Waya, this is Miss Jones, who will look
after the cows and calves--and the dairy." Then glancing at her torn
dress, he added: "You'll find some clean things in there, until I can
send up something from San Jose. Waya will show you.
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