en opened and a slender woman came
out.

John Westley knew at a glance that she was Jerry's mother, for she had
the same expression of sunniness on her lips; her hair, like Jerry's,
looked as though it had been burnished by the sun though, unlike Jerry's
clipped locks, it was softly coiled on the top of her finely-shaped
head.

"This is my mother," announced Jerry in a tone that really said: "This
is the wisest, kindest, most beautiful lady in the whole wide world!"

Though the dress that Mrs. Travis wore was faded and worn and of no
particular style, John Westley felt instinctively that she was an
unusual woman; in the graciousness of her greeting there was no
embarrassment. Only once, when John Westley introduced himself, was
there an almost imperceptible hesitation in her manner, then, just for
an instant, a startled look darkened her eyes.

While Jerry, with affectionate admonishing, silenced her dogs, Mrs.
Travis led their guest toward the little house. She was deeply concerned
at his plight; he must not dream of attempting to return to Wayside
until he had rested--he must spend the night at Sunnyside and then in
the morning Toby Chubb could drive him over. Dr. Travis would soon be
back and he would be delighted to find that she and Jerry had kept him.

"We do not meet many new people on this side of the mountain," she said,
smilingly. "You will be giving us a treat!"

So deeply interested was John Westley in the Travis family and their
unusual home, tucked away on the side of the mountain, to all
appearances miles away from anyone or anything (though Jerry had pointed
out to him the trail down the hillside that led to Miller's Notch and
the school and the little church and was a mile shorter than going by
the road), that he forgot completely the alarm that must be upsetting
the entire management of the Wayside Hotel over the disappearance of a
distinguished guest. Indeed, at the very moment that he stepped across
the threshold into the sunlit living room of the Travis cottage, a
worried hotel manager was summoning by telegraph some of the most expert
guides of the state for a thorough search of the neighborhood, and, at
the same time, a New York newspaperman, at the Wayside for a vacation,
was clicking off to his city editor, from the town telegraph station,
the most lurid details of the tragedy.

Sunnyside, John Westley knew at once, was a "hand-made" house; each foot
of it had been planned lovingly. Wind