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The Bennetts’ was one of the oldest places in town, and the most beautiful. It was near the heart of the growing village ambitiously calling itself a city. Level lawns protected by high hedges and shaded by many trees, spread amply around the house and back to the first terrace, where a tangle of berry vines covered trellises that shut off a lower level devoted to vegetables. Beyond this was the chickens’ domain, rock-dotted acres that sloped sharply to where Runa Creek boiled over its stony bed. Here mother hens fluttered and scolded while web-footed broods paddled in the edges of the stream. “Dear me, mother,” Edith said when Mrs. Bennett came in with hot cakes, “what shall we do with two children in dreamland?” Edith had not touched her breakfast, but was waiting on the others. Up, up Billy climbed. On the bare spaces, or balanced on the point of some slender rock, he stopped frequently to look down on the beautiful valley below; on little farms laid out checker-board fashion, dark green squares for orchards, lighter green for vineyards, with tree-lined lanes running between. Overhead fleecy clouds chased one another like freshly washed, woolly sheep across the blue pasture of the heavens. In the north the great blue mountain loomed, all its opalescent tints and shadows hidden till the setting of the sun should light them forth..

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They looked at her a minute, dropped reluctantly to the floor, and retired. CHAPTER XIII THE HIDDEN HUT As he came into the main road a rosy, wholesome looking girl was flying by. “Hello, Jean!” he called after her; “that’s going some—for a girl.” “All over the house does she put them?” the child asked after she had snipped a fragrant heap..