“Wal, yes’m, I do know. It’s a matter o’ three miles along the hill road. I’ll take you out thar myself if ye like. It’ll cost you a quarter, though—and I’m not very busy.”
So she climbed up on the wagon-seat, and the old farmer turned his horse and off they went.
It was mostly uphill, and therefore slow going, but at last they came in sight of a white house nestling in a tangle of green shrubbery and bright flowers.
“How pretty!” exclaimed Betty; “is that the Carey place?”
“It be,” vouchsafed the taciturn one, and Betty asked no further questions.
They drove in at the green, arched entrance, and up a winding road to the house. It was a truly summery dwelling, with large windows, wide verandas, screens and awnings.
The farmer climbed slowly down from his seat, slowly took Betty’s suitcase and set it on the porch.
Leaving her suitcase on the steps, she went up on the porch and rang the door-bell.
While awaiting an answer she let her gaze stray over the surrounding landscape.
It was wonderfully beautiful, and, as Betty had a passion for pure color, the clear cobalt sky, the various bright and deep greens of the trees, the smooth gray of a little lake, and the purple of the distant hills thrilled her color-loving soul.