ong a path that wound through
wild woods. There was no sign of the house until they came abruptly
upon it, bowered among the trees. It was eight-sided, and so justly
proportioned that its two stories made no show of height. The house
belonged there. It might have sprung from the soil just as the trees
had. There were no formal grounds. The wild grew to the doors. The
low porch of the main entrance was raised only a step from the ground.
"Trillium Covert," they read, in quaint carved letters under the eave of
the porch.

"Come right upstairs, you dears," a voice called from above, in response
to Saxon's knock.

Stepping back and looking up, she beheld the little lady smiling down
from a sleeping-porch. Clad in a rosy-tissued and flowing house gown,
she again reminded Saxon of a flower.

"Just push the front door open and find your way," was the direction.

Saxon led, with Billy at her heels. They came into a room bright with
windows, where a big log smoldered in a rough-stone fireplace. On the
stone slab above stood a huge Mexican jar, filled with autumn branches
and trailing fluffy smoke-vine. The walls were finished in warm natural
woods, stained but without polish. The air was aromatic with clean
wood odors. A walnut organ loomed in a shallow corner of the room. All
corners were shallow in this octagonal dwelling. In another corner were
many rows of books. Through the windows, across a low couch indubitably
made for use, could be seen a restful picture of autumn trees and yellow
grasses, threaded by wellworn paths that ran here and there over the
tiny estate. A delightful little stairway wound past more windows to the
upper story. Here the little lady greeted them and led them into what
Saxon knew at once was her room. The two octagonal sides of the house
which showed in this wide room were given wholly to windows. Under
the long sill, to the floor, were shelves of books. Books lay here and
there, in the disorder of use, on work table, couch and desk. On a sill
by an open window, a jar of autumn leaves breathed the charm of the
sweet brown wife, who seated herself in a tiny rattan chair, enameled a
cheery red, such as children delight to rock in.

"A queer house," Mrs. Hale laughed girlishly and contentedly. "But we
love it. Edmund made it with his own hands even to the plumbing, though
he did have a terrible time with that before he succeeded."

"How about that hardwood floor downstairs?--an' the fireplace?" Bi