trees. The brook flowed sedately between fern-bordered banks, under
rustic bridges, and widened occasionally into pools carpeted with lily
pads. Mossy paths set with stepping-stones led off into mysterious
depths that the eye could not penetrate: the leaves were just out enough
to half hide and to tantalize. The grass was starred with crocuses. It
looked like an enchanted wood in a fairy tale.

This second wood, however, was bordered by a solid stone wall, and on
top of the wall, by four strands of barbed wire. Signs appeared at
intervals--three were visible from where Patty stood--stating that these
were private grounds, and that trespassers would be prosecuted to the
full extent of the law.

Patty knew well to whom it belonged; she had often passed the front
gates which faced on the other road. The estate was celebrated in the
neighborhood, in the United States, for the matter of that. It comprised
500 acres and belonged to a famous--or infamous--multi-millionaire. His
name was Silas Weatherby, and he was the originator of a great many
Wicked Corporations. He had beautiful conservatories full of tropical
plants, a sunken Italian garden, an art collection and picture gallery.
He was a crusty old codger always engaged in half-a-dozen lawsuits. He
hated the newspapers, and the newspapers hated him. He was in
particularly bad repute at St. Ursula's, because, in response to a
politely couched note from the principal, asking that the art class
might view his Botticelli and the botany class his orchids, he had
ungraciously replied that he couldn't have a lot of school girls running
over his place--if he let them come one year, he would have to let them
come another, and he didn't wish to establish a precedent.

Patty looked at the "No Trespassing" signs and the barbed wire, and she
looked at the wood beyond. They couldn't do anything if they did catch
her, she reasoned, except turn her out. People weren't jailed nowadays
for taking a peaceable walk in other people's woods. Besides, the
millionaire person was attending a directors' meeting in Chicago. This
bit of neighborhood gossip she had gleaned that morning in her weekly
perusal of the daily press--Saturday night at dinner they were supposed
to talk on current topics, so Saturday morning they glanced at the
headlines and an editorial. Since the family were not at home, why not
drop in and inspect the Italian garden? The servants were doubtless more
polite than the mast