She was kind—­oh, yes, but so sad in her heavy crepe.  Aunt Genevieve in her trailing gowns was charming to behold, but no more company for Rosalind—­at least not much more—­than the griffins.  Miss Herbert was not a merry, comfortable person like their own Mrs. Browne at home.  The house was very quiet.  The garden was beautiful, but she longed to be outside its tall iron gates; and she longed—­how she longed—­for her old companions!

Cousin Louis had given her her favorite story in a binding of soft leather, delicious to hold against one’s cheek, and her father had added a copy of the beautiful miniature.  With these treasures she had set out upon her journey.  But she had begun to feel as if in the great Forest she had lost her way, when the friendly face of the magician reassured her.

The sound of sweeping draperies broke in upon her thoughts.  It was Aunt Genevieve, and she had not learned her hymn.  Picking up her book, she stole swiftly across the grass till she was hidden by some tall shrubbery.  Before her was a high hedge of privet; beyond it, among the trees, the chimneys of a red brick house.

Walking back and forth, Rosalind began to study in earnest.  Looking first at her book and then up at the blue sky, she repeated:—­

    “’Lo! such the child whose early feet
        The paths of peace have trod. 
      Whose secret heart with influence sweet
        Is upward drawn to God.’”

CHAPTER SECOND.

On the other side of the hedge.

“Give me leave to speak my mind.”

There was another garden on the other side of the hedge; not so large, nor so beautifully kept perhaps, but a pleasant garden, for all that.  The red brick house to which it belonged was by no means so stately as the one whose doorstep the griffins guarded, yet it had an importance all its own.  On week days, when the heavy shutters on the lower front windows were open, The National Bank of Friendship was to be seen in gilt letters on the glass; on Sundays, however, when they were closed, there was little to suggest that it was anything more than a private dwelling.  It was a square, roomy house, and the part not in use for bank purposes was occupied by the cashier, Mr. Milton Roberts, and his family.

While Rosalind, curled up on the garden seat, was thinking of home, Maurice Roberts lay in the hammock under the big maple near the side porch, where his mother and Miss Betty Bishop sat talking.  He held a book, but instead of reading was allowing himself the lazy entertainment of listening to their conversation.