g among ancient, beautiful trees, i

nts' wing and a piazza with columns and turned the farm buildings into a garage. Artists and such people say it's the prettiest place in this part of the

e, a little winding road that runs between trees caught together with wild grape and Virginia creeper. In summer they're like green walls all draped over with the vines and in winter they turn

e as bride and groom with her daughter, Sylvia Hesketh. I hadn't come yet, but from what I've heard, there was gossip about them from t

ine, the Doctor's car and a dandy little roadster that belonged to Miss Sylvia. Neither she nor the Doctor bothered much with the chauffeur. They l

nly left his wife a small fortune, willing the rest-millions, it was said-to his daughter. She was a minor-nineteen-and

He'd been a celebrated surgeon in New York but had retired only for consultations and special cases now and again. He was very good to the people round about, and would come in and help when our little Dr. Pease, or Dr. Graham, at the Junction, were up a

r into the shops and not at all affable to the tradespeople. The Doctor wouldn't trouble to give you so much as a nod, just stride along looking straight ah

knew what brought Jack Reddy in from Firehill so often I couldn't be set against her. Je

n her neck. Her face was pure pink and white, the only dark thing in it her big brown eyes, that were as clear and soft as a baby's. And she

efined to advertise yo

hers if she'd had the wealth or a decent shaped back to

top and have a pleasant word with me. On bright afternoons I'd see her pass on horseback, straight as an arrow, with a man's hat on her golden hair. She'd always have a smile for everyo

and go from town and now and then stay over Sunday at the Longwood Inn-it's a swell little place done up in the Colonial style-and you'd see them riding and walking with her, very devoted. At first every

dential things on the wire, that she gets to know more than most about what I suppose you'd call human nature. It's a study that's always attract

y were in the booby class beside Miss Sylvia. She was what the novelists call a coquette, but she was that dainty and sly about it that I don't believe any of the victims knew it. It wasn't what she said, either; more the way she looked

im fooled. But I said nothing-I'm the close sort-and it wasn't till I came to be frie

wn bathroom-and being the real thing she didn't put on any airs, but when she liked me made right up to me and we

e to carry tales, but I could see she had something on her mind and for the first time she loosened up. I was picking over a box of chocolates and I didn't give

nswered, "the heroine's stepfat

ne, like the teachers in the High-"I'm sure he means well by

home hides a tragedy. W

ery spoiled and self-willed. No one's ever

he disap

ughtful out of the window. Then she said

no gossip and can be trusted, and the truth is, I'm w

and sat up on the edge of the be

mb," I said, sort of c

y a grown-up baby ready to say black is white if her husband wants her to-and Dr. Fowler's trying to do it and he's going about it all wro

the book where you can find out

ut not as if s

nything and everything-says she's always been like that. And, of course, wi

the Doctor

ngwood. But-that's what the quarreling's about-he's found out tha

e book on the piano. What's wrong abo

n her-it's just the bringing-up and the spoiling and the admiration. But, of course, in her posit

n, pretending to

she go wit

in white spats and a high hat-"and a young lawyer called Dunham and Ben Robinson,

s careful as if I was s

happy family?" I asked. "A

a fine fellow, and I tell you now, Molly, with Sylvia so willful and the doctor so domineering and Mrs

dn't come into Longwood much. I heard that he was spending a good deal of his time at the bungalow at Hochalaga Lake, and I did s

via often, sometimes on horseback, sometimes driving her motor. She was prettier than ever for the change and seemed like she couldn't stay in the house. I'd see her

only been one row-that was about a man who was up at Bar Harbor and had met Sylvia and paid her a good

we were in Anne's room that even

w about him, which I'll write down in this place

n come back and taken up their residence in Mr. Cokesbury's country seat, and it was shortly after that Mrs. Cokesbury died there, leaving three children. For a while the widower stayed on with nurses a

nductor, told me that Mr. Cokesbury had been down several times, staying over Sunday and had said he had given up the idea of selling the place. He told Sands he couldn't get h

ear neighbors. Mr. Cokesbury only kept one car-he'd had several when his wife was there-and used to drive himself down from the Lodge to the station, leave his car in the Azalea garage, and drive himsel

good to his wife-everybody said she was a real lady-but was the gay, wild kind, and not young, either. Anne said he was forty if he was a day. When I asked her what Sylvia could see in an old gink like that, she just

oods. The woods cover the hills behind the village and they're grand, miles and miles of them. But wait! There was a little thing that happened,

summer doing stunts on a bit of carpet. I'd seen them often-chaps in dirty pink tights walking on their hands and rolling round in knots-and I wouldn't have stopped but I got a glimpse of little Mick Don

tle, brown, shriveled-up man holding it by a chain, was dancing. And when I got my first look at that bear, in spit

es set up high in its head and looking angry at the crowd as if it despised them. When its master jerked the chain and shouted something in a foreign lingo it hitched up its lip

ic stopped and one of the acrobats came round with a hat and little Mick gave a great sigh as if he was coming out of a dream. "If you hadn't come, Mo

squeezed out to keep him in the front or they'd hear

n you crossed him savage. Maybe it was because I'd been so worried, but it gave me a kind of chill. My thoughts went back to Mapleshade and I got one of those queer glimpses (like a curtain was lifted for a second an

full of colored leaves, and all quiet except for the rustlings of little animals round the roots. There's a road that

were Sylvia Hesketh and a man. Close to them, run off to the side, was a motor and near it tied to a tree a horse with a lady's saddle. Sylvia was in her riding dress, looking a

r riding dress,

rize fighter. He was dressed in a loose coat and knickerbockers and as he talked he had his hands spread out, one on each knee, great brown hands with hair on them. I was close enough to see that, but he was speaking so low an

s gone. I felt kind of shriveled up inside-the way you feel when someone you love is sick. I couldn't bear to think that Jac

the rest of October and through the first part of November things went along qu