Reform School, Mr.
Wortley," Luella urged pacifically, "that's awful. I always say the
young ones mean well, mostly; there ain't many that set out to be
bad a-purpose. Only, accordin' to their judgment--"

"Their judgment! _Their_ judgment! For God's sake!" he thundered,
and darted into the house, slamming the door so that the casements
rattled.

"I guess you'd better run on, dear," Luella suggested, "he's bad
to-day. Some days I just have my hands full with him, and then again
he'll be real pleasant and amusin'--he'll say the cutest things. But
he's perturbed to-day, and that's a fact. You stop in 'long in the
afternoon, when he takes his nap and I'm at my ironing, and we'll
have a good visit."

Caroline nodded soberly and took up her journey again, not a little
depressed; he had been such a whirlwind of a gentleman.

Unconsciously she followed a tiny, all-but-overgrown trail that led
straight up the hill against which the cottage was built and lost
itself, apparently, in the thick wood at the top. A belt of tall
beeches half way up blotted out everything behind it, and the dozens
of chipmunks and red squirrels that scurried hither and yon, the fat
hen-partridge schooling her brood under Caroline's very nose, the
flame-colored, translucent lizards slipping under mossy roots at her
feet, showed the neglect into which the trail had fallen. She pushed
on, hardly certain now that she had not lost it, or that it had ever
led anywhere, when she stumbled suddenly over a handsome meerschaum
pipe, still warm, and colored to a nicety. She picked it up, poked
experimentally at the ashes with a twig, smelled it distastefully
and stared about her. No one was in sight, and she had walked at
least a quarter of a mile before she encountered a young man sitting
in a dejected attitude on the stump of a yellow birch.

He was peering gloomily into the hemlocks opposite him, his hands
were deep in his pockets, his feet crossed at an uncomfortable
angle. He was a pale young man with dark circles under darker eyes,
and an expression of such settled melancholy that Caroline lost no
time in assuaging it as far as she could.

"Here it is," she remarked, holding out the pipe, "how do you do?"

The young man started violently.

"Holy Bridget, who are you?" he demanded. "How did you get here?
This is private property--didn't you see the sign?"

"There wasn't any sign the way we came," she returned placidly, "we
came over the mountain.