"We're bound to see a good deal of him anyway," Theodora urged, a shade less hotly. "Right next door and a patient of papa's, it would be queer not to pay any attention to him. He's all alone, too, and there are such a lot of us. I don't want to do anything out-of-the-way, Hope, but I do wish we could get acquainted with him."
"Wait till papa comes home, dear," Hope said, with the gentleness which had gained her so many victories over her tempestuous young sisters. "That will only be two or three weeks, and he will know what is the best thing to do."
"Maybe, unless the new Madame is a prig," Theodora said restively. "She may be worse than you are, Hope; but I doubt it. Never mind," she added sagely to herself, as she left the room; "it is two weeks till then, and there's plenty of chance for things to happen, before they get home."
CHAPTER TWO
Lying far at the side of the little suburban town, the McAlisters' grounds were of a size and beauty which entitled them to be ranked as one of the few so-called "places" that dominated the closely-built streets of the town. The land ran all up and down hill, here coaxed into a smooth-cropped lawn, there carpeted with the moss and partridge vines which had been left to grow over the rocks in undisturbed possession. Here and there, too, were outcrops of the rock, ragged, jutting ledges full of the nooks and crannies which delight the souls of children from one generation to another. The grounds had been, for the most part, left as nature had made them, full of little curves and hillocks and dimples; but the great glory of the place lay in its trees. No conventional elms and maples were they, but the native trees of the forest, huge-bodied chestnuts, tall, straight-limbed oaks, jagged hickories which blazed bright gold in the autumn and shot back the sunlight from every leafy twig, and an occasional cedar or two, from which came the name of the place, The Savins.
Less than a year after his first marriage, Dr. McAlister had bought the place, going far out of the town for the purpose. At that time, he was regarded as little short of a maniac, to prefer land on the ridge to the smooth, conventional little lawns of the middle of the town, where one house was so like another that the inhabitants might have followed the example of the Mad Tea Party and moved up a place, without suffering any inconvenience from the change. It was years before the townspeople dropped the story of Mrs. McAlister's first attempt to choose a site for the house, of her patiently sitting on top of the rail fence, while her husband borrowed a hatchet and manfully whacked away at the underbrush, to clear a path to admit her to her new domain.
It was not till several years later that the house was built, and the McAlisters actually took possession of their new home. Phebe was a baby then, and the twins were so young that Theodora formed an abiding impression that Indians were prone to lurk behind a certain trio of great chestnut-trees at the far side of the grounds. The house was not impressive. It stood on one of the three hills, and originally it had been small, to match the income of the young doctor. Only a year later, he had built on a new wing; and, from that time onward, the spirit of reconstruction had entered into his soul. Hope was wont to describe the house as a species of crazy patchwork, a patch for each year, and each patch of a different style. From the outside point of view, the result was not a success, and the large red house, low and rambling, had grown beyond the limits of the hill and sprawled over the edge on a pile of supporting piazzas and pillars. Inside, it was altogether delightful, with odd windows and corners and lounging places, sunshine everywhere, and the indescribable air of half-shabby, well-used cosiness which is so dear to every one but the owners thereof. Strangers felt the charm as soon as they crossed the threshold; the whole atmosphere of the place was hospitable and unconventional and homelike.
Taken all in all, it was an ideal spot for growing children, and the young McAlisters had made the most of it. On rainy days, they adjourned to the attic, where they bumped their heads against the low rafters of the gables, or ventured on long, perilous expeditions upon the beams of the unfloored extension over one of the wings. They were gifted with good imaginations, these three older children, and this carefully-trodden territory did service alternately as Africa, Fort Ticonderoga, and a runaway locomotive.
But that was only during stormy weather. The rest of the time they lived out-of-doors, in winter coasting down the hills on sleds or on shingles, according to the state of the crust; and in summer running riot among the green things, like the very daisies which refused to be rooted out of the lawn. A neighborhood had grown up around them; but they cared little for other children. A wealth of imagination, and plenty of room to let it work itself out had developed plays of long standing which were as charming to them as they were incomprehensible to their young neighbors.