The Leighton cottage was a rambling structure, suggesting a series of architectural after-thoughts. Its location could hardly have been surpassed, for it stood on a rise of ground so that in any direction one looked across fertile valleys to encircling hills. A porch ran about three sides of the house, shaded here and there by vines. In spite of a certain look of neglect, emphasized by the straggling branches of the untrimmed vines, and the cobwebs everywhere visible, its appearance was distinctly prepossessing.
“Going to get these doors open any time to-day?” asked the stage-driver, apparently struggling for resignation.
“The keys, Aunt Abigail!” Amy cried.
“Bless you, child, I haven’t any keys!” the old lady answered. Then, with no apparent loss of serenity, “Oh, yes, I do remember that you handed them to me. But I haven’t an idea where they are now.”
The girls looked reproachfully at Amy. After having set forth the peculiarities of her relative in such detail, she should have known better than to have entrusted her with anything as important as keys. But clearly it was no time for recrimination, and after a moment all of them were following Peggy’s example, and hastily examining the various articles of hand luggage which contained Aunt Abigail’s belongings. Owing to the old lady’s habitual forgetfulness these were numerous, for the articles which had been left out when her trunk was packed had made the journey in shawlstraps and large pasteboard boxes. Just as every one had become thoroughly convinced that the keys had been left behind in Friendly Terrace, Dorothy made a discovery.
“I hear bells,” she announced dreamily, “little tinkly bells like fairies.”
Aunt Abigail jumped, and this time everybody’s ears were sharp enough to hear the fairy-like chime.
“Of course,” cried Aunt Abigail beaming. “They’re in the pocket. I told my dressmaker that if I was the only woman in the United States to boast a pocket, I wouldn’t be satisfied without one. I will say for her though, that she located it in the most inaccessible place she could possibly have chosen. Girls, come and help me find it.”
Aunt Abigail stood resignedly, while a group of girls made a rush, like hounds attacking a stag. The pocket was located without much difficulty, though some valuable time was expended in finding the opening. At last the keys were produced in triumph, the front door was unlocked, and the stage-driver grunting disdainfully, carried in the trunks.
Indoors the cottage lived up to the promise of its exterior. The front door opened into a big living-room furnished comfortably, though simply, and with a large brick fireplace at one end. Beyond this were the dining-room and kitchen, with store-room and pantry, and a long woodshed running off to one side. The second floor consisted of a number of small bedrooms, each with just enough in the way of furnishings to provide for the comfort of the occupants, without adding to housekeeping cares. From this story a staircase of ladder-like steepness, led up to an unfinished garret, empty, except for a few pieces of dilapidated furniture and sundry piles of magazines and paper-covered books, which had undoubtedly contributed to the entertainment of the cottagers in past seasons.