at in all his thirty-five years he had never
done before--he fainted. He made one little effort to rise and walk down
the rocky steps but instead he rolled in an unconscious heap right to
the girl's feet.

He wakened, some moments later, to a consciousness of cool water in his
face and a pair of anxious brown eyes close to his own. He felt very
much ashamed--and really better for having given way!

"Are you all right now?"

"Yes--or I will be in a moment. Just give me a hand."

He marveled at the dexterity with which she lifted him against her slim
shoulder.

"Little-Dad's gone over to Rocky Point, but I knew what to do," she said
proudly. "I s'pose you're from Wayside?"

He looked around. "Where _is_ Wayside?"

She laughed, showing two rows of strong, white teeth. "Well, the way
Little-Dad travels it's hours away so that Silverheels has to rest
between going and coming, and Mr. Toby Chubb gets there in an hour with
his new automobile when it'll _go_, but if you follow the Sunrise trail
and then turn by the Indian Head and turn again at the Kettle's Handle
you'll come into the Sleepy Hollow and the Devil's Pass and----"

John Westley clapped his hands to his head.

"Good gracious, no wonder I got lost! And just where am I now?"

"You're right on the other side of the mountain. Little-Dad says that if
a person could just bore right through Kettle you'd come out on the
sixth hole of the Wayside Golf course--only it'd be an awfully _long_
bore."

John Westley laughed hilariously. He had suddenly thought how carefully
his guide always planned _easy_ hikes for him.

The girl went on. "But it's just a little way down this trail to
Sunnyside--that's where I live. Little-Dad's my father," she explained.

"I'd rather believe that you're a woodland nymph and live in yonder
birch grove, but I suppose--your garments look so very man-made--that
you have a regular given-to-you-in-baptism name?"

"I should say I had!" the girl cried in undisguised disgust. "_Jerauld
Clay Travis._ I _hate_ it. Nearly every girl I know is named something
nice--Rose and Lily and Clementina. It was cruel to name any child
J-e-r-a-u-l-d."

"I think it's--nice! It's so--different." John Westley wanted to add
that it suited her because _she_ was different, but he hesitated; little
Miss Jerauld might misunderstand him. He thought, as he watched from the
corner of his eye, every movement of the slim, strong, boyish form, that
she was unlike