Maida led the way to the side of the house—the north. They crossed an expanse of lawn, came to an opening in the stone wall. Beyond looked like unbroken forest. But from the break in the wall, threading its way through the trees, appeared a well-worn path. They followed it for a few rods. It ended flush against a big sloping rock.
“This,” Maida said triumphantly, “is House Rock.”
The children swarmed over it.
“Isn’t it a beauty!” Rosie exclaimed.
It was a beauty—and especially for play purposes. It was big, cut up by stratification into all levels—but low. At its highest end, it was not three feet from the ground. Trees shaded it; bushes hedged it; mosses padded it. No wonder it had been named House Rock; for it was a perfect setting for those housekeeping games in which little children so delight.
“Now, listen to me, little six,” Maida began.
But Arthur interrupted, “Why that’s a great name for them—the Little Six. And we,” he added triumphantly, “are the Big Six.”
“Molly and Mabel and Dorothy and Betsy and Delia and Timmie,” Maida started again, “all of you, listen! You are the Little Six. This is your playground. There are some toys in the house; dolls and doll’s dishes and doll’s furniture, which you can bring here to play house with. But you are not to go far from the Rock. And when you hear the cow-bell, you must always return to the Little House.”
“Is that all,” Laura asked eagerly, “and now can we leave the Little Six and go exploring?”
The Little Six waited, dancing with excitement, impatient for the first time in their lives to have the big children go.