Puss went down to the gate with him.
“Be sure to tell your sister I am coming to-morrow,” she said. “And you’ll call again here yourself, won’t you? I shall not soon forget how you took care of me!”
Winthrop drew himself up and lifted his hat in elegant city fashion; which, however, only made Puss laugh and shake her curls.
“It’s no use to be the least bit dignified with me,” she said merrily, “for I don’t know what to do back. We just shake hands, here in the country, and say good-by.”
“Good-by,” said Winthrop, taking her little brown hand with mock solemnity.
“Good-by,” laughed Puss, “that’s better. Don’t forget your message!”
As Winthrop walked rapidly toward his uncle’s house, he went over and over the exciting events of the afternoon. He had only arrived about a week before, but he had already come in contact with the three boys who had been amusing themselves by rudely teasing Miss Cecilia Rowan, the gentlest and prettiest girl in the village. They were notorious, he had soon found, for their ill-behavior and rough manners, and had even been suspected of certain petty thefts in the neighborhood. Winthrop could not help feeling that he should hear from them again.
The meeting between his sister and Puss Rowan took place the very next day, and the two girls were almost immediately warm friends. As Winthrop had predicted, Puss’s bright face and winsome ways won the heart of the pale city maiden at once, and “did her good,” too.
One or two pleasant afternoons they passed together, and several delightful trips were planned. One of these was a small lunch party, to a favorite spot for the village young folks, called “Willow Brook.” It was about four miles from Taconic Corner, and the road to it lay through deep woods, adding an enjoyable drive to and fro, to the pleasures of the day.
Willow Brook is a noisy little stream that comes dancing down from a spur of the White Mountains, finding its way through a heavy growth of spruce and fir, over half a dozen granite ledges, and so onward until it reaches the upper Taconic meadows, where it suddenly becomes demure and quiet; but, nevertheless, is all dimples when the wind whispers to it through the sedges, or teases for a romp under the shadow of the birch-trees that line its bank here and there. At length it reaches a small picturesque valley, where the hills, though by no means lofty, perhaps remind it of its mountain childhood; for there it pauses, and holds in its bosom the pictures of the gently rising uplands, with their peacefully browsing flocks of lambs—and gathers white lilies, and so rests a while from its journey. At times, it is true, a dimple of the old-time fun, or an anxious shadow as it hears the roar of machinery and busy life beyond, hides the treasured secrets of its heart, but as the ruffled brow smooths, you can see again in those quiet depths, lambs, lilies, fleecy clouds, alike snowy white and beautiful.