“Who are the Morrisons?” asked Mary Louise.

“Will Morrison is a rich banker and his wife Sallie was an old schoolmate of mine.  The Lodge is only a little resort of theirs, you know, for in the city they live in grand style.  I know you girls will enjoy the place, for the scenery is delightful and the clear mountain air mighty invigorating.”

All girls delight in change of location and although Irene was a little worried over the difficulties of getting to Hillcrest Lodge in her crippled condition, she was as eager to go as was Mary Louise.  And she made the trip more comfortably than she had feared.

At Millbank the stage-driver fixed a comfortable seat for her in his carryall and loaded the boxes and baggage and the wheeled chair and the box of books—­which had arrived from New York—­on the railed top of his bus, and then they drove away through a rough but picturesque country that drew from the girls many exclamations of delight.

Presently they came to a small group of dwellings called the “Huddle,” which lay at the foot of the mountain.  Then up a winding path the four horses labored patiently, halting often to rest and get their breaths.  At such times the passengers gloried in the superb views of the valley and its farms and were never impatient to proceed.  They passed one or two modest villas, for this splendid location had long ago been discovered by a few others besides Will Morrison who loved to come here for their vacations and so escape the maddening crowds of the cities.

Aunt Hannah had planned the trip with remarkable accuracy, for at about three o’clock the lumbering stage stopped at a pretty chalet half hidden among the tall pines and overlooking a steep bluff.  Here the baggage and boxes were speedily unloaded.

“I gotta git back ter meet the aft’noon train,” said Bill Coombs, their driver.  “They won’t be any more passingers in this direction, tain’t likely, ’cause the houses ‘roun’ here is mighty scattered an’ no one’s expectin’ nobody, as I know of.  But in the other direction from Millbank—­Sodd Corners way—­I may catch a load, if I’m lucky.”

So back he drove, leaving the Conants’ traps by the roadside, and Peter began looking around for Morrison’s man.  The doors of the house were fast locked, front and rear.  There was no one in the barn or the shed-like garage, where a rusty looking automobile stood.  Peter looked around the grounds in vain.  Then he whistled.  Afterward he began bawling out “Hi, there!” in a voice that echoed lonesomely throughout the mountain side.

And, at last, when they were all beginning to despair, a boy came slouching around a corner of the house, from whence no one could guess.  He was whittling a stick and he continued to whittle while he stared at the unexpected arrivals and slowly advanced.  When about fifteen paces away he halted, with feet planted well apart, and bent his gaze sturdily on his stick and knife.  He was barefooted, dressed in faded blue-jeans overalls and a rusty gingham shirt—­the two united by a strap over one shoulder—­and his head was covered by a broad Scotch golf cap much too big for him and considerably too warm for the season.