ows had been cut by no rule of
architecture but where the loveliest view could be had; doors seemed to
open just where one would want to go. The beams of the low ceiling and
the woodwork of the walls had been stained a mellow brown. There was a
piney smell everywhere, as though the fragrant odors of the mountainside
had crept into and clung to the little house. A great fireplace crowned
the room. Before it now stretched a huge Maltese cat. And most
surprising of all--there were books everywhere, on shelves built in
every conceivable nook and corner, on the big table, on the arm of the
great chair drawn close to the west window.

All of this John Westley took in, with increasing wonder, while Mrs.
Travis brought to him a glass of home-made wine. He drank it gratefully,
then settled back in his chair with a little contented laugh.

"I'm beginning to feel--like Jerry--that Kettle Mountain is inhabited by
fairies and that I am in their stronghold!"

But there was little suggestive of the fairy in Jerry as she tumbled
through the door at that moment, Pepperpot held high in her arms and
Bigboy leaping at her side. They rudely disturbed the Maltese--Dormouse,
Jerry called her--and then occupied in sprawling fashion the strip of
rug before the hearth.

"Be _still_, Pepper! Shake hands with the gentleman, Bigboy. They're as
offended as can _be_ because I ran away without them," she explained to
John Westley. "Do you feel better now?" she asked, a little proprietary
note in her voice.

"I do, indeed, and I'm glad, too, very glad, that I got lost."

"And here comes Little-Dad up the trail! I'll tell him you're here.
Anyway, he'll want me to put up Silverheels." She was off in a flash,
the dogs leaping behind her.

After having met Jerry and Jerry's mother, John Westley was not at all
surprised to find Dr. Travis a most unordinary man, also. He was small,
his clothes, country-cut, hung loosely on his spare frame, his hair
fringed over his collar in an untidy way, yet there was a kindliness, a
gentleness in his face that was winning on the instant; one did not need
to see his dusty, worn medicine case to know that his life was spent in
caring for others.

Widely traveled as John Westley was, never in his whole life had he met
with such an interesting experience as his night at Sunnyside. Most
amazing was the hospitality of these people who seemed not to care at
all who he might be--it was enough for them that chance had bro