more like a sister, I guess--says she
skates and skis and does everything with the child. And the most curious
father--don't believe he's been further away from Kettle than Waytown
more'n three or four times in his life; sits there with his books when
he isn't jogging off on his horse to see some sick mountaineer, and the
kindest, gentlest soul that ever breathed. There's an atmosphere in that
house that _is_ different, upon my word--makes one think of the old
stories of kings and queens who disguised themselves as peasants--simple
meal, everything sort of shabby but you couldn't give all that a
thought, there was such a feeling of peace and happiness everywhere."
John Westley actually had to stop for breath. But he was too eager and
too much in earnest to mind the glint of amusement in Mrs. Allan's eyes.
"When I went to bed didn't that big, amber-eyed cat of Jerry's follow me
upstairs and into the room and stretch herself across my bed just as
though that was what I'd expect! I never in my life before slept with a
cat in the room, but I felt as though it would be the height of rudeness
to chuck her off the bed! And I haven't slept as soundly, since I've
been sick, as I did in that little room. I think it was the piney smell
about everything. Miss Jerry wakened me at an unearthly hour by throwing
a rose through my window. It hit me square in the nose. The little
rascal was standing down there in the sunshine, in her absurd trousers,
with a basket of berries in her hand--she'd been off up the trail after
them."

Although John Westley's glowing account had prepared her for what she
would find at Sunnyside, ten minutes after Penelope Allan had crossed
the threshold she could not resist nodding to him, as much as to say:
"You were quite right." In such places as Sunnyside little conventional
restraints were unknown and in a very few moments the two women were
chatting like old friends while Dr. Travis was explaining in his
drawling voice the advantages of certain theories of planting, to which
Will Allan listened intently, because he was planning a garden at
Cobble, while John Westley, only understanding a word now and then,
wished he hadn't devoted so much of his time to cement and knew more
about spinach.

Afterwards, as they drove down the rough trail back to Cobble, John
Westley demanded: "Honestly, Pen Allan, doesn't it strike you that there
_is_ a mystery about these Travis people?"

She hesitated a moment before a