Going away for the summer was almost unknown in Friendship; a week or two at the shore or in the mountains was as much as any of its loyal inhabitants dreamed of.  To the few who like Genevieve Whittredge found the place dull at any season, the warm days afforded a welcome excuse for flitting.

After the final decision in the Gilpin will case Friendship drew a long breath and acquiesced in the inevitable.  Arguments and discussion lost their interest, and something like the old peace settled down on the town.

The Gilpin house and its contents must now be sold, but summer was not an advantageous season, and the sale had been postponed till early fall in the hope of attracting from a distance lovers of old furniture.

Thus the place was left untenanted.  Weeds ran riot in the garden, the grass crept stealthily over the walks, and the clematis and honeysuckle on the low stone wall mingled their sweetness in undisturbed luxuriance.  The Arden Foresters were free to come and go as they chose, the only other trespasser being Celia Fair, who when her household tasks were done often brought her sewing to Patricia’s Arbor, with the feeling that her days there were numbered.

At the Whittredges’ Genevieve was making her preparations to leave soon after the return of her brother Allan, who was looked for any day.  Her mother’s restless mind had taken a sudden fitful interest in some genealogical question, and welcoming anything that diverted her thoughts from herself had thrown all her energies into the subject, spending most of her time at her desk or in reading old letters.

Rosalind was left to go her ways; if she appeared at meal-time, no questions were asked, Miss Herbert, indeed, shook her head at such liberty.  A girl of Rosalind’s age should be learning something useful, instead of running about the village or poring over story books.  She could not know that with a certain old play for a textbook the children she thought so harum-scarum were learning brave lessons this summer.

Rosalind was happy.  The hours when she was not with one or all of these new friends of hers were few, and these she usually spent in the garden, which she was beginning to love, with a book.  She had discovered some old books of her father’s, given to him in his boyhood, with his name and the date in them, in itself enough to cast a halo over the most stupid tale.

When the sun shone on the garden seat beside the white birch, there was another favorite spot in the shade of a tall cedar, where an occasional stir of wind brought the spray from the fountain against her face.

Yes, in spite of the puzzles, Rosalind was beginning to love Friendship.  It was weeks since Great-uncle Allan had seemed to frown on her, and even the griffins wore a friendlier look; as for the rose, she had come to doubt the evidence of her own eyes since that afternoon at the magician’s when Miss Fair had shown such friendliness.