The next day Mr. Toby Chubb’s “Fly-by-day,” as Dr. Travis called the one automobile that Miller’s Notch boasted, chugged busily over the mountain roads. John Westley started out very early to find his friends at Cobble; then he had to drive back to Wayside to appease a distraught manager and half a dozen angry guides and also to pack his belongings; for the Allans would not let him stay anywhere else but with them at Cobble. Then, after he had been comfortably established in the freshly painted and papered guest-room of the old stone house which the Allans had been remodeling, he coaxed Mrs. Allan to drive back to Sunnyside that she might, before the day passed, get better acquainted with Jerry and Jerry’s mother.

“I couldn’t feel more excited if I’d found a gold mine there on the side of Kettle!” John Westley had told his friends. Mrs. Allan, an attractive young woman, who was accustomed to many congenial friends about her, had been wondering, deep in her heart, if she was not going to find Cobble just the least little bit lonely at times, so she listened with deep interest to John Westley’s account of Jerry and Sunnyside.

“I can’t just describe why the girl seems so different it’s that she’s so confoundedly natural! There’s a freshness about her that’s like one of these clean, cool mountain winds whipping through you.”

Mrs. Allan laughed at his awkward attempt to explain Jerry. She was used to girls she loved them, she understood just what he was trying to say. He went on: “And here she is growing up, tucked away on the side of that mountain with a mother who’s more like a sister, I guess says she skates and skis and does everything with the child. And the most curious father don’t believe he’s been further away from Kettle than Waytown more’n three or four times in his life; sits there with his books when he isn’t jogging off on his horse to see some sick mountaineer, and the kindest, gentlest soul that ever breathed. There’s an atmosphere in that house that is different, upon my word makes one think of the old stories of kings and queens who disguised themselves as peasants simple meal, everything sort of shabby but you couldn’t give all that a thought, there was such a feeling of peace and happiness everywhere.” John Westley actually had to stop for breath. But he was too eager and too much in earnest to mind the glint of amusement in Mrs. Allan’s eyes. “When I went to bed didn’t that big, amber-eyed cat of Jerry’s follow me upstairs and into the room and stretch herself across my bed just as though that was what I’d expect! I never in my life before slept with a cat in the room, but I felt as though it would be the height of rudeness to chuck her off the bed! And I haven’t slept as soundly, since I’ve been sick, as I did in that little room. I think it was the piney smell about everything. Miss Jerry wakened me at an unearthly hour by throwing a rose through my window. It hit me square in the nose. The little rascal was standing down there in the sunshine, in her absurd trousers, with a basket of berries in her hand she’d been off up the trail after them.”

Although John Westley’s glowing account had prepared her for what she would find at Sunnyside, ten minutes after Penelope Allan had crossed the threshold she could not resist nodding to him, as much as to say: “You were quite right.” In such places as Sunnyside little conventional restraints were unknown and in a very few moments the two women were chatting like old friends while Dr. Travis was explaining in his drawling voice the advantages of certain theories of planting, to which Will Allan listened intently, because he was planning a garden at Cobble, while John Westley, only understanding a word now and then, wished he hadn’t devoted so much of his time to cement and knew more about spinach.

Afterwards, as they drove down the rough trail back to Cobble, John Westley demanded: “Honestly, Pen Allan, doesn’t it strike you that there is a mystery about these Travis people?”

She hesitated a moment before answering, then laughed lightly as she spoke. “You funny man the magic of these mountains is getting in your blood! Of course not they are just a very happy family who know a little more than most of us about what’s really worth while in this world. Now tell me about your own nieces Isobel, and that madcap Gyp, and little Tib.” She knew well how fond John Westley was of these three girls and to talk of them brought to her a breath of what she had known at home before she had married Will Allan, the spring before.

“Oh, they’re as bad as ever,” he said in a tone that implied exactly the opposite. “Isobel’s growing more vain each day and Gyp more heedless, and Tibby’s going to spoil her digestion if her mother doesn’t make her eat less candy and more oatmeal. I haven’t seen much of the youngsters since I was sick.”

“And Graham poor boy, stuck in among those girls! He must be in long trousers now.”

“Graham can take care of himself,” laughed the uncle. “Wish I had the four of them here with me! I wanted to bring them along but Dr. Hewitt said it’d be the surest way to the undertaker. They are a good sort but sometimes, I wonder

“You are an extraordinary uncle, to take the responsibility of your nieces and nephew the way you do.”

“I can’t help it; I’ve lived with them since they were babies and it’s just as though they were my own. And their father’s away so much that I think their mother sort of depends on me. Sometimes I get a little bothered they’re having the very best schooling and all the things money can give young people and yet there’s a sort of shallowness possessing them that makes them well, not value the opportunities they’re having

“You talk like a veritable schoolmaster,” laughed Mrs. Allan, teasingly.

“Have you forgotten that when Uncle Peter Westley left Highacres to the Lincoln School it made me trustee of the school? That’s almost as bad as being the principal. And this year I’m going to take an active interest in the school, too. The doctor says I must have a ‘diversity’ of interests to offset the strain of making cement-mixers and I think to rub up against two hundred boys and girls will fill the bill, don’t you? They’ve remodeled the building at Highacres this summer and completed one addition. There are twenty acres of ground, too, for outdoor athletics.”

“What a wonderful gift,” mused Mrs. Allan, recalling the pile of stone and marble old Peter Westley had built in the outskirts of his city that could never have been of any possible use to himself because he had been a crusty old bachelor who hated to have anyone near him. Gossip had said that he had built it just because he wanted his house to cost more than any other house in the city; unworthy as his motive in building it might have been, he had forever ennobled the place when he had bequeathed it to the boys and girls of his city.

“There’ll be a chance, with the school out there, of offsetting just what’s threatening Isobel and Gyp a sort of grownupness they’re putting on like a masquerade costume!”

I love your very manlike way of describing things, laughed Mrs. Allan, recalling certain experiences of her own when, for six months, she had undertaken the care of her own niece, Patricia Everett. Its so vivid! A masquerade make-up, too big and too long, and then when you peep under the ‘grown-up’ costume, there’s the little girl still really loving to frolic around in the delightful sports that belong to youth and youth only.”

John Westley rode on for a few moments in deep silence, his mind on the young people he loved then suddenly it veered to the little girl he had found on the Wishing-rock, her eyes staring longingly out into a dream-world that lay beyond valley and mountain top.

“I’ve an idea a corker!” he exclaimed, just as the Fly-by-day bounced into the grass-grown drive of Cobble House.