Fortunately the distance to the blacksmith's was not great, for Mr. Chester could not be dissuaded from accompanying his wife and daughter thither, in answer to that astounding "summons." That the document was legal and not to be ignored, he knew well enough, though mother Martha protested vigorously against paying any attention to it.

"It's some absurd mistake, John. How in the world could our Dolly be a witness in any such affair? No, indeed. Not a step will any of us take toward that shop-office! A pretty justice of the peace a blacksmith must be, anyway! I never was so insulted in my life. Instead of going there, I'm going down cellar to clean it up and made ready for our butter-making."

"First – catch your cow, wife dear! A better one than that old Brindle who has deserted us already. And as for your going, why, of course, you needn't. Dorothy C. is the important person in this case, and I'm as much her guardian as you."

"John, you mustn't! You couldn't walk so far on your crutches – "

"Oh! I must learn to walk long distances, and 'up-mounting' must be comparatively near. I remember that Alfaretta said it was 'next door to Cat Hollow,' and Cat Hollow's just beyond Skyrie. Dorothy'd better run over to Mrs. Smith's, where you get your milk, and ask directions. No use to waste any strength hobbling over the wrong route – "

"Maybe the grocer's wagon will be up before ten o'clock and he might carry you," suggested Mrs. Chester.

"He ought not to go out of his way, that clerk; besides, it would be as difficult for me to climb into his high cart as to trot along on my own wooden feet. Shall Dolly inquire?"

So Dorothy was dispatched upon the errand, duly warned not to inform the Smith household of its cause, though there was small danger of that. The girl had never been so angry in her life. "Arrested," was the way she put the matter to herself, yet why – why! She had never done anything wicked in her life! and this man, "Archibald Montaigne," what did she know about such a person or any dogs which might have run into him? Nor was she prepared for the evident curiosity with which Mrs. Smith regarded her; a curiosity greater than that her kidnapping adventures had provoked, and which angered her still more.

"The way to Seth's shop? Sure. I know it well's I know the road to my own barnyard. You go out your gate and turn toward the river and walk till you come to the corner of two roads. Take the upper road, right into the woods, and there you'll be. Don't you be afraid, Sis. Nobody can do anything to just a witness, so. The boy'll be the one'll catch it, and heavy. That Mr. Montaigne looks like a regular pepper-pod, and is, too. Why, he sent his man down here, t'other day, to warn me to keep my hens shut up and off his property. My hens! That was never shut up in their lives, nor found fault with before. But – "

"Good-morning. Thank you," interrupted Dorothy, rather rudely, but too impatient to be back at home to think about that. Arrived there she found that, like a good many other people, once given her own way mother Martha did not care to take it. Instead of ignoring the summons to court, she arrayed herself in her best street costume and duly appeared at Seth Winters's home with her crippled husband and indignant child.

There is no need to describe the "trial" which followed. It was almost farcical in its needlessness, and poor Dorothy's part in it of the slightest import. She had to tell that she did know the dogs, Peter and Ponce, and that once she had been run against and knocked down by one of them. Also, that on the morning of the "assault" these dogs had called at Skyrie and that she had lost hold of one of them, and that they had run away with one James Barlow in pursuit. Then she was dismissed; but at a nod from Mrs. Calvert, crossed the room to where that lady sat and nestled down beside her, surprised to find her in such a place and, apparently, so much amused by the scene.

The outcome of the affair was simple. Mr. Montaigne's anger had had time to cool and he was a snob. It was one thing to prosecute a helpless lad but quite another to find that the "ferocious" dogs belonged to his aristocratic neighbor, whose acquaintance he had not heretofore been permitted to make, although he had endeavored so to do. Mrs. Cecil was, practically, the very center and queen of that exclusive circle which had "discovered" the "Heights" and was the most bitterly opposed to "outsiders" possessing property thereon.

"This man Montaigne, Cousin Seth, may have much more money than brains, but we don't want him up here on our hill," she had once said to her old friend, and giving him that title of "Cousin" from real affection rather than because he had any right to it.

He had laughed at her in his genial, hearty way, which could give no offence, and had returned:

"My good Betty, you need humanizing. We can't all be old Maryland Calverts, and I like new people. Don't fancy that a man who has made millions —made it, understand – is brainless, and not well worth knowing. You know I can spend money – "

"None better, man!"

"But the gift of making it was denied me. I intend that you and I shall know this Mr. Montaigne and – like him. I shall make it my business to accomplish that fact even though, at present, he thinks a country blacksmith beneath his notice. That time will come. I have infinite patience, I can wait, but I shall hugely enjoy the event when it arrives."

This conversation had taken place the summer before, when the newcomer had begun the building of his really palatial residence, and Seth Winters had waited a whole year, little dreaming that the acquaintance he had determined upon should begin in his own office, with him as arbiter in a case between a rich man and a penniless boy.

"The complaint is withdrawn," declared the complainant, as soon as he had discovered the real state of affairs, and that now was his chance to become acquainted with Mrs. Cecil. "I – I was offended at the time, but – it's too trivial to notice. I beg to apologize, Madam Calvert, for the annoyance I've given you. Of course, the lad – "

"Don't mention it; an amusement rather than an annoyance," replied the lady, graciously. "So little of moment happens up here on our mountain that an episode of this kind is quite – quite refreshing. My Great Danes will not trouble you again. My 'Cousin' Winters, here – allow me to make you acquainted in a social as well as business way – my 'Cousin' Winters is almost as much attached to the beautiful animals as I am, and he has this very morning presented me with a pair of wonderful chains, warranted not to break. Fortunately, he had them already waiting my arrival, as a gift, and never gift more opportune."

"My 'Cousin' Winters!"

Archibald Montaigne felt as if the boards beneath his feet were giving way. That this old gentlewoman whose blood was of the bluest – and he adored "blue blood" – should claim relationship with an obscure farrier was a most amazing thing. Well, then, the next best step for himself to take in this affair was to foster the acquaintance with the smith; and thereby, it might be, gain entrance for his family and himself into "Society."

For his family first. That credit was due him. Personally, he loved better a quiet corner in his own great mansion, where he might study the fluctuations of the "market" and scheme to increase the wealth he had already compassed. And with the shrewdness which had enabled him to take advantage of mere money-making "chances," he now seized upon the social one presented.

"My dear Madam Calvert, my wife and daughter are without in my carriage. They have been a little – little lonely up here, for it's quiet, as you say. Do allow me to present them, call them in, or – if you will be so kind, so very kind, our precious Helena is an invalid, you know, you might step out to them with me. If I might appeal to your kindness for my daughter, who's heard so much about you and will be so delighted."

What could Mrs. Cecil do? Nobody had ever appealed to her "kindness" without receiving it, and though she positively hated to know these "new, upstart people," she was too well bred to show it. But as Mr. Montaigne bowed the way outward she flashed a look toward the smiling smith, which said as plainly as words:

"You've caught me in this trap! The consequences are yours!"

The glance he telegraphed back meant, as well:

"Good enough! I'm always glad to see a prejudice get its downfall. The time I waited for came, you see."

Almost unconsciously, Mrs. Cecil still retained in her own soft hand the clinging one of Dorothy C., which she had taken when she called the girl to her side; so that she now led her out of the office to the carriage before its door and to what Dorothy thought was the loveliest person she had ever seen.

This was Helena Montaigne, a blonde of the purest type, whose great blue eyes were full of a fine intelligence, but whose perfect features were marred by an expression of habitual discontent. This little lady made Dorothy think of the heads of angels painted upon Christmas cards and, also, for an instant made her stare rather rudely. The next she had recovered herself and acknowledged Mr. Montaigne's introduction with a natural grace and ease which delighted Mrs. Cecil beyond words. She was always gratified when "Johnnie's" adopted daughter proved herself worthy of the interest she had taken in her; and she now mentally compared the beauty of the two girls, with no disparagement to Dorothy C.

Indeed, the dark eyes, the tumbled curly head, – where the brown hair was just recovering from the rough shearing Miranda Stott had given it, while her young prisoner was ill with the measles, – and the trim, erect little figure, had already become in the eyes of this childless old lady a very dear and charming picture.

Helena's manner was that of a grown young lady, which, indeed, she quite fancied herself to be. Was she not fourteen and, on state occasions, promoted to the dignity of having her abundant hair "done up" by her mother's own hairdresser? And as for skirts, they had been lengthened to the tops of her boots: and by another year she would have her dinner frocks made en train. Her own manner was rather disdainful, as if the people she met were not her equals; yet this contempt was for their "general stupidity." She had not her father's love of money nor her mother's timidity concerning her own behavior; for the fear that she should not conduct herself according to the "best usages of polite society" was the bane of gentle Mrs. Montaigne's existence. By nature extremely simple and sweet, she tormented herself by her efforts to be haughty and "aristocratic" – not quite understanding the true meaning of the latter term.

Money had come to her too late in life for her to become accustomed to the use of, and indifferent to, it; and, though she revered her husband on account of his ability to make it, their wealth was a burden for her, at times almost too heavy to bear.

On the other hand, Helena and Herbert, her brother, two years older, could not remember when they had not more money at their command than they knew how to use. The boy was not as clever as his sister, but he was more generally liked, though his insolence, sometimes, was most offensive. He rode up, at this moment, upon a spirited black horse, and called out, noisily:

"Well, dad! How'd the trial go? Hope you walloped that lumpkin good; and the old woman owns the dogs – "

"Herbert! Herbert!" warned Mr. Montaigne, in distress. Whereupon his son came round from the corner of the shop, which had hidden him from sight of all the party save his father, and found himself in the presence of the very "old woman" herself. He had none of his parents' ambition to know her or any other of the "exclusives" of the Heights, being quite sufficient unto himself; but he had been trained in the best schools and knew how to conduct himself properly. Besides, he was more frank by nature than the others of his family and, having found himself "in a box," escaped from it by the shortest way possible.

"Hello! I've done it now, haven't I? I beg your pardon, Mrs. Calvert, and dad's and everybody's;" saying which, the lad pulled his hat from his head, and checked his horse to a standstill beside the carriage where his mother and sister sat.

He was a handsome boy, of the same fair type as Helena, but much more rugged in strength; and his blue eyes danced with merriment instead of frowning with the disdain of hers. He adored her yet quarreled with her continually, because she had so little interest in "sensible, outdoor things"; and his gaze now turned upon Dorothy with instant perception that here was a girl worth knowing and no nonsense about her.

His gay debonair manner and his ready apology for his own blunder pleased Mrs. Calvert. She liked honesty and did not mind, in the least, having been termed an "old woman." This boy was worth all the rest of the Montaignes put together, she decided, and thereupon showed her good will by admiring his thoroughbred mount.

"That's a fine beast you have there, lad. Needs a little exercise to get him into shape, but I reckon a few trips up and down this mountain will fetch him right."

She had herself walked to her old friend's shop and now stepped forward to examine at closer range the good points of the horse, stroking his velvet nostrils with an affectionate touch, and patting his shoulder approvingly.

Herbert stared and exclaimed:

"Why, that's strange! Cephy hates women. Won't let mother nor sister come near him, or wouldn't if they tried – which only Helena has done – once! You must like horses, ma'am, and understand 'em a lot."

"I ought to. I was brought up with them. They've been my best company many and many a time. I was put into a saddle when I was but a year and a half old. Held there, of course; but took to the business so well that by the time I was five I could take a fence with my father, any time he wanted to ride over the plantation. I'm glad to see you like them, too. But I must be going. I'm sorry, Mr. Chester, that I didn't drive over; then I could have taken you home, but. I didn't expect to have the pleasure of meeting you here. I – "

As she paused this straightforward old lady looked at Mrs. Montaigne with a questioning glance; but receiving no comprehending glance in return addressed herself to her late opponent in law.

"Won't you let Mr. Chester take your place in your carriage, Mr. Montaigne, and you walk alongside me? It's such a low, easy vehicle and it's a good bit of a way back to Skyrie. I'm going there myself, and there couldn't be a better time than this for all of us to call upon our new neighbors. I'm sure we're all delighted to have them among us."

There was nothing for it but compliance. Though his face reddened and he would far rather have walked, or hobbled, twice the distance than become an enforced recipient of the Montaigne courtesy, John Chester felt that this old gentlewoman had been and was too true a friend for him to offend by not falling in with her proposal.

On his own part, Archibald Montaigne winced at the picture of this crippled ex-postman riding in state beside his wife and daughter, yet dared not refuse, lest by so doing he would close the door to that future intimacy which he coveted. He felt that this intimacy with Mrs. Cecil, personally, might be anything but agreeable; yet in her old white hands lay the key to the social situation which was his latest ambition.

There ensued but the briefest hesitation, during which there issued from Seth Winters's lips an amused, reproachful exclamation:

"O Betty, Betty! Never too old for mischief!"

But none heard the words save "Betty," who smiled as she did so. The others were helping Mr. Chester into the carriage and settling him comfortably there, with an ostentatious kindness on the part of Mr. Montaigne which the ex-postman inwardly resented. Then the coachman started his team forward, and the justice returned to his smithy, cheerily calling out:

"Well, lad, we've come out of that business with flying colors! It was the presence of Mrs. Calvert which did the most for us, though the man has more sense than appeared, yesterday, else he wouldn't – Why, Jim? James? Jimmy?"

There was no response. None but the office cat answered this summons. The defendant in this remarkable suit had vanished.

CHAPTER VIII
A WALK AND ITS ENDING

It was with great surprise that the dwellers in the houses along the way saw the contestants in a case of law returning from the trial in the most harmonious manner.

First came the Montaigne equipage, with Mrs. Montaigne and Helena upon the back seat, the latter sitting stiffly erect and haughty, the former chatting most pleasantly with the cripple facing her. Behind the carriage walked Mrs. Calvert and Mrs. Chester, both in the gayest of spirits and talking volubly of household matters; as mother Martha afterward described it:

"Might have been plain Mrs. Bruce, or Jane Jones herself, Mrs. Cecil might, she was that simple and plain spoke. She's going to have her currant jell' made right away, even whilst the currants are half green. Says she's read it was better so, and though she's afraid her old cook'll 'act up' about it she's bound to try. She said that when a body gets too old to learn – even about cookin' – it's time to give up living. Land! She's not one that will give it up till she has to! I never saw anybody as full of plans as that old lady is. You'd think she was just starting out in life instead of being so nigh the end of it, and I guess she thought I was s'prised to hear her tell. Because she caught me looking at her once, right sharp, and she laughed and said: 'I'm one of the people who can't settle down, I'm so many years young!' Why, she might have been Dolly, even, she was so full of fun over the way that lawsuit ended. I know 'twas that that pleased her so, though she never mentioned it from the time we left the shop till we got back to Skyrie. Well, green currants may make the jell' solider, but I shall wait till just before the Fourth, as I always have, to make mine: and I'm thankful for the few old currant bushes that still grow along that east wall. Almost any other kind of shrub'd have died long ago, neglected as things have been, but you can't kill a currant bush. More'n that, when I get my jell' done I'm going to send Mrs. Calvert a tumbler and compare notes. I reckon mine'll come out head, for I never was one to take up with everything one reads in the papers, nor cook books, either."

Which shows that, despite her previous objections to it, that morning's excursion to the haunts of justice proved a very enjoyable one to the rather lonely little woman from the city, who found the enforced quiet of the country one of her greatest privations.

Following their elders came also Dorothy C. and Herbert, who had slipped from his saddle to walk beside his new acquaintance, and she was already chatting with him as if they had always known each other. To both the world of "outdoors" meant everything. To him because of the gunning, fishing, riding, and rowing; to her because of its never-ending marvels, of scenery, of growing things, and of the songs of birds.

"I tell you what – Steady, Bucephalus!" cried Herbert to the restless animal he led and whose prancing made Dorothy jump aside, now and then, lest she should be trampled upon. "I tell you what! The very next time I go out fishing in the Merry Chanter, my catboat, I'll coax sister to go, too, and you must come with us. If she will! But Helena's such a 'fraid-cat and Miss Milliken – she's my sister's governess – is about as bad. There's some excuse for Helena because she is real delicate. Nerves or chest or something, I don't know just what nor does anybody else, I fancy. But the Milliken! Wait till you see her, then talk about nerves. Say, Miss Dorothy – "

"I'm just plain Dorothy, yet."

"Good enough. I like that. I knew you were the right stuff the minute I looked at you. I – you're not a goody-good girl nor a 'fraid-cat, now are you?" demanded Herbert, anxiously.

"No, indeed! I'm not a bit good. I wish I were! And I'm not often afraid of —things. But I am of folks – some folks," she answered with a little shudder.

"Yes, I know about that. Just like a story out of a book, your being stolen was. But never mind. That's gone by. Do you like to fish?"

"I never fished," said Dorothy, with some decision.

"You'll learn. The old Hudson's the jolliest going for all sorts of fish. There's an old fellow at the Landing generally goes out with me and the rest the boys. He's a champion oarsman, old as he is, and as for – Say! Ever taste a planked shad?"

"No, never."

"You shall! Old Joe Wampers shall fix us one the first time we go out on the river. He can cook as well as he can fish, and some of us fellows had a camp set up on the old Point, last year. I haven't been over there yet, this summer, but it's all mine anyhow. When it came fall and the others had to go back to school they – well, they were short on cash and long on camp, so I bought them out. You like flowers? Ever gather any water lilies?"

"Like them? I just love them, love them! Of course, I never gathered water lilies, for I've always lived in the city. But I've often – I mean, sometimes – bought them out of pails, down by Lexington Market. Five or ten cents a bunch, according to the size. I always tried to save up and get a big bunch for mother Martha on her birthday. I used to envy the boys that had them for sale and wish I could go and pick them for myself. But – but I've seen pictures of them as they really grow," concluded Dorothy C., anxious that Herbert should not consider her too ignorant.

However, it was not the fact that she had never gathered lilies which had caught his attention; it was that one little sentence: "to save up." He really could scarcely imagine a state of things in which anybody would have to "save" the insignificant amount of five or ten cents, in order to buy a parent a bunch of flowers. Instantly, he was filled with keen compassion for this down-trodden little maid who was denied the use of abundant pocket money, and with as great an indignation against the parents who would so mistreat a child – such a pretty child as Dorothy C. Of course, it was because the niggardly creatures were only parents by adoption; and – at that moment there entered the brain of this young gentleman a scheme by which many matters should be righted. The suddenness and beauty of the idea almost took his breath away, but he kept his thought to himself and returned to the practical suggestion of planked shad.

"Well, sir, – I mean, Dorothy, – a planked shad is about the most delicious morsel a fellow ever put in his mouth. First, catch your shad. Old Joe does that in a twinkling. Then while it's still flopping, he scales and cleans it, splits it open, nails it on a board, seasons it well with salt and pepper, and stands it up before a rousing fire we've built on the ground. U'm'm – Yum! In about half or three-quarters of an hour it's done. Then with the potatoes we've roasted in the ashes and plenty of bread and butter and a pot of coffee – Well, words fail. You'll have to taste that feast to know what it means. All the better, too, if you've been rowing for practice all morning. Old Joe Wampers coaches college crews even yet, and once he went over with Columbia to Henley. That's the time he tells about whenever he gets a chance. 'The time of his life' he calls it, and that's not slang, either. Say. What's to hinder our doing it right now? This very afternoon – morning, for that matter, though it's getting rather late to go before lunch, I suppose. I'll tell you! Just you mention to your folks that you're going on the river, this afternoon, and I'll coax mother to make Helena and the Milliken go, too. Then I'll ride right away down to the Landing and get old Joe warmed up to the subject. He's getting a little stiff in the joints of his good nature, but a good dose of flattery'll limber him up considerable. Besides, when he hears it's for that real heroine of a kidnapping story everybody was talking about, he'll be willing enough. I'll tell him you never tasted planked shad nor saw one cooked, and he'll just spread himself. 'Poor as a June shad,' he said yesterday, when I begged for one, though that's all nonsense. They're good yet. Will you?"

He paused for breath, his words having fairly tumbled over each other in their rapidity, and was utterly amazed to hear Dorothy reply:

"No, thank you, I will not. Nothing would tempt me."

"Why, Dorothy Chester! What do you mean?" he asked, incredulous that anybody, least of all an inexperienced girl, should resist the tempting prospect that he had spread before her.

"I wouldn't touch to taste one of those horrible 'flopping' fish! I couldn't. I wouldn't – not for anything. I should feel like a murderer. So there!"

"Whew! George and the cherry tree! You wouldn't? 'Not for anything?' Not even for a chance to sail along over a lovely piece of water, dabbling your hand in it, and pulling out great, sweet-smelling flowers? 'Course, you needn't see the shad 'flop.' I only said that to show how fresh we get them. Why, I coaxed even dad over to camp once and I've always wanted Helena to go. Pshaw! I am disappointed."

"I don't see why nor how you can be much. You didn't know me till an hour ago – or less, even. And I'm disappointed too. You didn't look like a boy who would" – Dorothy paused and gave her new acquaintance a critical glance – "who would kill things!"

"Nor you like a silly, sentimental girl. 'Kill things!' Don't you ever eat fish? Or beef? or dear little gentle chickens?" demanded this teasing lad, as he quieted his horse and prepared to mount, though at the same time managing to keep that animal so directly in Dorothy's path that she had to stand still for a moment till he should move aside.

She frowned, then laughed, acknowledging:

"Of course I do. I mean I have; but – seems to me now as if I never would again."

"Well, I'm sorry; and – Good-morning, Miss Chester!"

Away he went, lifting his hat in the direction of the people ahead, looking an extremely handsome young fellow in his riding clothes, and sitting the fiery Bucephalus with such ease that lad and steed seemed but part and parcel of each other. Yet his whole manner was now one of disapproval, and the acquaintance which had begun so pleasantly seemed destined to prove quite the contrary.

"He's a horrid, cruel boy! Kills birds and things just for fun! He isn't half as nice as Jim Barlow, for all he's so much better looking and richer. Poor Jim! He felt so ashamed to have made everybody so much trouble. I wish – I wish he'd come with us instead of that Herbert: " thought the little maid so unceremoniously deserted by her new friend.

"She's just a plain, silly, 'fraid-cat of a girl, after all!" were the reflections of the young horseman, as he galloped away, and with these he dismissed her from his mind.

Now it happened that Mrs. Calvert liked young folks much better than she did old ones, and the conversation which she had rendered so delightful to Mrs. Chester, during that homeward walk, was far less interesting to herself than the fragments of talk which reached her from the girl and boy behind her. So when the hoofs of Bucephalus clattered away in an opposite direction, she turned to Dorothy and mischievously inquired:

"What's the matter, little girl? Isn't he the sort of boy you like? You don't look pleased."

Dorothy's frown vanished as she ran forward to take the hand held toward her and she answered readily enough, as she put herself "in step" with her elders:

"I would like him – lots, if he didn't – if he wasn't such a killer. I like his knowing so much about birds and animals – he says he can whistle a squirrel out of a tree, any time, and that's more than even Jim can do. At least I never heard him say he could. And Jim Barlow will not kill anything. He simply will not. Even old Mrs. Stott had to kill her own poultry for the market though she'd strap him well for refusing. All the reason he'd tell her was that he could not make anything live, so he didn't think he'd any right to make it die. Mrs. Calvert, have – have you forgiven poor Jim for letting the dogs get away? and me too? Because I know he feels terrible. I do, and it makes me sort of ashamed to have you so kind to me when it was part my carelessness – "

"There, there, child! Have done with that affair. It was more amusing than annoying, for a time, and after I found my Danes were safe; but I hate old stories repeated, and that story is finished – for the present. There'll be more to come, naturally. One can't make a single new acquaintance without many unexpected things following. For instance: John Chester riding so familiarly in Archibald Montaigne's carriage and talking – Well, talking almost as his little daughter has been doing with her new friend. I overheard Mrs. Montaigne mention something about having once been a patient at a hospital in our city and that was the 'open sesame' to 'Johnnie's' confidence. Oh! it's a dear old world, isn't it? Where enemies can change into friends, all in one morning: and where people whom we didn't know at breakfast time have become our intimates by the dinner hour. This is a glorious day! See. We are almost at the turn of the road that leads to Skyrie. Slowly as we have come it hasn't taken us long. I'm glad I walked. It has done me good and – given my neighbors yonder a chance to know one another."

"I'm glad, too. I haven't enjoyed myself so much since we moved here, only, of course, when Dolly got home," responded Mrs. Chester. "Yet what an angry, disgusted woman I was when I went over this road before, lawsuit-wards, so to speak."

They were almost at the corner when Dorothy cast a last glance backward and exclaimed: