CHAPTER XLIV
"Is that the house?" asked Lewis, as they mounted the brow of the hill.
Leighton nodded.
Across a wide expanse of green that was hardly smooth enough to be called a lawn gleamed the stately homestead. It was of deep-red brick, trimmed with white. It stood amid a grove of giant sugar-maples. The maples blended with the green shutters of the house, and made it seem part and parcel of the grove. Upon its front no veranda had dared encroach, but at one side could be seen a vine-covered stoop that might have been called a veranda had it not been dwarfed to insignificance by the size of the house. The front door, which alone in that country-side boasted two leaves, was wide open, and on the steps leading up to it, resplendent in fresh gingham, stood Mrs. Tuck.
With some difficulty William persuaded the bays to turn into the long-unused drive that swept up to the front door. Leighton sprang out.
"Hallo, Mrs. Tuck!" he cried. "How are you?"
"How do you do? I'm very pleased to see you back, Mr. Leighton," said Mrs. Tuck, who read the best ten-cent literature and could talk "real perlite" for five minutes at a stretch. "Come right along in. You'll find all the rooms redded up—I mean—"
"Yes, yes," laughed Leighton, "I know what you mean all right. I haven't even forgotten the smell of hot mince pies. Lew, don't you notice a sort of culinary incense——'
"Land sakes! them pies is a-burnin'!" shrieked Mrs. Tuck as she turned and ran.
William offered to show the way to the bedrooms, but Leighton refused.