Oakhurst, in the mountains, was a very lovely spot. Besides the hotel where Luke Shepard had worked and where he had met with his accident, there were bungalows and several old-fashioned farmhouses where boarders were received. There was a lake, fine golf links, bridlepaths through the woods, and mountains to climb. It was a popular if quiet resort.
Ruth and Cecile Shepard had rooms in one of the farmhouses, for the hotel was expensive. Besides, the farmer owned a beautifully shaded lawn overlooking the lake and the girls could sit there under the trees while the invalid, as they insisted upon calling Luke, reclined on a swinging cot.
“Believe me!” Cecile often insisted, “I will never send another telegram as long as I live. I cannot forgive myself for making such a mess of it. But then, if I hadn’t done so, you would not be here now, Ruthie.”
“Isn’t that a fact?” agreed her brother. “You are all right, Sis! I am for you, strong.”
Ruth laughed. Yet there were worried lines between her eyes.
“It is all right,” she murmured. “I might have come in any case—for Mr. Howbridge advised it by this letter that they remailed to me. But I should not have left in such haste, and I should have left somebody besides Mrs. McCall to look after the girls.”
“Pooh!” ejaculated Luke. “What is the matter with Agnes?”
“That is just it,” laughed Ruth again, but shaking her head too. “It is Agnes, and what she may do, that troubles me more than anything else.”
“Goodness me! She is a big girl,” declared Cecile. “And she has lots of sense.”
“She usually succeeds in hiding her good sense, then,” rejoined Ruth. “Of course she can take care of herself. But will she give sufficient attention to the little ones. That is the doubt that troubles me.”