any girl he had ever known, and, because he had three
nieces and they had ever so many friends, he really knew quite a bit
about girls.

"Yes, it's--different," she sighed, unconscious of the thoughts that
were running through the man's head. Then she brightened, for even the
discomfiture of having to bear the name Jerauld could not long shadow
her spirit, "only no one ever calls me Jerauld--I'm always just Jerry."

"Well, Miss Jerry, you can't ever know how glad I am that I met you! If
I hadn't, well, I guess I'd have perished on the face of Kettle
Mountain. I am plain John Westley, stopping over at Wayside, and I can
swear I never before did anything so silly as to faint, only I've just
had a rather tough siege of typhoid."

"Oh, you shouldn't have _tried_ to climb so far," she cried. "As soon as
you're rested you must go home with me. And you'll have to stay all
night 'cause Mr. Chubb's not back yet from Deertown and he won't drive
after dark."

If John Westley had not been so utterly fascinated by his surroundings
and his companion, he might have tried immediately to pull himself
together enough to go on to Sunnyside; he was quite content, however, to
lean against a huge rock and "rest."

"I'm trying to guess how old you are. And I thought you were a boy, too.
I'm glad you're not."

"I'm 'most fourteen." Miss Jerry squared her shoulders proudly. "I guess
I do look like a boy. I wear this sort of clothes most of the time,
'cept when I dress up or go to school. You see I've always gone with
Little-Dad on Silverheels when he went to see sick people until I grew
too heavy and--and Silverheels got too old." She said it with deep
regret. "But I live--like this!"

"And do you wander alone all over the mountain?"

"Oh, no--just on this side of Kettle. Once a guide and a man from the
Wayside disappeared there beyond Sleepy Hollow and that's why they call
it Devil's Hole. Little-Dad made me promise never to go beyond the turn
from Sunrise trail. I'd like to, too. But there are lots of jolly tramps
this side. This"--waving her hand--"is the Witches' Glade and
that"--nodding at the rock against which the man leaned--"is the
Wishing-rock."

John Westley, who back home manufactured cement-mixers, suddenly felt
that he had wakened into a world of make-believe.

He turned and looked at the rock--it was very much like a great many
other rocks all over the mountainside and yet--there _was_ something
different!

Jerry g