“Having a nice time here, eh?” Mr. Sinclair remarked, as he sat down upon the bank.  “That walk has puffed me.  Do you come up here often?” he asked, turning toward Betty.

“Whenever Mr. David takes the notion,” was her reply.  “I always come with him, and we have such a pleasant time.”

“And do you always stop here and spend your time in throwing stones at that rock?  Are you not wasting your time?”

“We might be doing worse, though,” Betty replied, somewhat nettled at the man’s words.  “We might be throwing stones at you or somebody else.”

“At me!” and Mr. Sinclair looked surprised.

“Yes, at you.  But perhaps it’s safer to throw them at that rock over there.  It doesn’t mind for it knows we’re only in fun.  It’s a special friend of mine, and that’s why I like to be near it.  You would never believe that it saved half my father’s farm several years ago.”

“What, that rock?”

“It certainly did, and I shall never forget what it did for us.”

“Tell me about it,” and Mr. Sinclair sat down upon the ground.  The mention of the Bean farm had suddenly aroused his interest, and made him willing to listen to this country girl’s story.

“It was a long time ago,” Betty began, “just after my father was married.  He had bought a piece of land off of the Dinsmore Manor, about one hundred acres, I think it was.  After he had paid for the place there was some trouble about the line between him and the man who had bought another piece of the manor next to him.  They agreed to have the line run over again.  I don’t understand all about it, but, anyway, when the line was run it cut my father’s place almost in two, and he was afraid he was going to lose all that land where those fine logs are now.  It was a funny mistake, but it was soon settled.”

“What had that rock to do with it?” Mr. Sinclair enquired.

“Oh,” and the girl gave a slight laugh.  “I forgot that part.  You see, the surveyor was to start running the line from the big pyramid rock on this brook.  It is called that because of its shape.  Father happened to be away from home the day the line was run and the surveyor started from another rock farther down the brook, which looks something like that one over there.  Wasn’t it funny?  So you see that is why I am so fond of that big rock and come here as often as I can to be near my good friend.”

As Betty finished, a peculiar expression might have been detected in Peter Sinclair’s eyes, and for a few seconds he gazed steadily at the rock before him.  It seemed that the girl’s story had greatly interested him and started him off on a new line of thought.  Just what it was he kept to himself and with an apparent effort turned his attention once more to Betty.

“You will not come here as often, I suppose, when the company gets to work,” he remarked.  “Things will be much changed along this brook, and perhaps your old friend, the rock, may be disturbed.”