Michael was trimming the grape vines, ably assisted by Dick, who sidled along the trellis, keeping up a fluent stream of inarticulate advice and trying, apparently, to get his horny toes or his long black bill cut off by the snapping shears.

“Oh, get along with you,” cried Michael at last, stung to impatience by having cut off the wrong twig in his effort to avoid injuring the inquisitive bird. “Go on about your business and leave me be.”

He gave his black companion a friendly cuff that pushed him off the trellis and launched him into flight. Dick swooped across the garden, where Betsey stood laughing at him and at Michael’s irritation, and flew to the top of the stone wall where he sat scolding with all his might.

“He is not wise to do that,” commented Miss Miranda. “When he caws so loudly he is apt to bring the wild crows and they do not like him.”

Friendly as Dick was with all members of the human race, he was plainly not on good terms with his own kind. Luxurious living had made him larger and sleeker than they, but a less agile flier. He led a lazy life and was not so practiced or swift on the wing as those hard, wiry birds who gained their living by gleaning in the fields. Even as Betsey watched, a rusty, wild crow flew up, attracted by his cawing, and perched on the wall beside him, followed by another and another.

“Oh, look,” Betsey cried, “they are pecking him. And here come some others!”

The wild crows had fallen on poor Dick with vicious, stabbing bills and were being joined by a rapidly increasing crowd of comrades. The clamor that arose was deafening, Dick’s pathetic caws being mixed with the angry, harsh cries of his assailants, all of whom were jealous, it seemed, of his plump sides and shining coat. He took flight finally and sailed away toward the top of the hill, pursued by a trailing cloud of chattering enemies.

“The wild crows have always hated him,” Miss Miranda said anxiously, “and he will never learn not to provoke them. There are so many this time that I am afraid they will peck him to death.”

Elizabeth set off in pursuit, hoping to find where they had alighted and to drive off the attacking birds, but, although she ran with all speed across the lawn and through the gate in the wall, she lost sight of the flock over the crest of the hill. The continued uproar, however, of angry crow voices guided her onward so that she followed farther and farther, hoping every moment to come close enough to scatter the struggling group with a stone. She found traces of the battle here and there, in scattered black feathers that drifted over the grass. She would not give up the chase so long as poor Dick, driven ever farther from home, still called for help from his human friends with a voice that grew continually weaker.

Past the ruined house she ran, and down the farther slope of the hill, through unexplored country where thick hedges and overgrown flower beds showed the traces of an abandoned formal garden. There was a sundial, so covered with vines that no one, even at high noon, could have read the hour on its mossy face, and a tumbledown arbor smothered in climbing yellow roses. More and more she realized what a beautiful place this must have been where Miss Miranda had once lived, but Dick’s unhappy progress gave her little time for observation.

Over the lower wall swept the chase and over the wall went Betsey in pursuit, clambering up one side by the aid of a leaning pear tree and half sliding, half tumbling down on the other. She reached the ground with rather of a thud, but she picked herself up and ran on, paying no attention to the jarring fall. The way went across plowed fields now, and through bramble hedges, past a stream or two and even into a swampy meadow where the green sod sank under Elizabeth’s footsteps and left muddy pools that sucked at her shoes. Finally a farmer’s cottage at the edge of a river came in sight and, to her relief here, the running fight seemed to have come to an end. She saw the wild crows perching and rocking on the boughs of a big tree before the gate, cawing in such shrill-voiced anger that she was certain they must have been somehow robbed of their prey. As she came panting into the farmyard she observed there was a pigeonhouse high up under the peak of the barn roof and it was plain, from the way in which the astonished white birds were bursting out of doors and windows, that it was in their dwelling that the harassed and desperate Dick had taken refuge.

A surprised farmer, not knowing quite what to make of such a breathless and disheveled stranger, led her up the narrow stairs that climbed to the pigeon loft and opened the door upon the rows of perches and nests. Dick came fluttering to her at once, a weary and bedraggled bird, with his bright plumage torn and his head bleeding and plucked almost bare. She held him carefully as she picked her way down the steep stairs again, unable to help laughing at his croaking attempts to tell just what had happened.

The farmer’s wife, a hearty, friendly woman, insisted that Elizabeth sit down in the shade of the big tree and rest a little.

“I will bring you a drink of water; just wait a minute until I draw some fresh from the well,” she said.

She went bustling away, leaving Betsey very glad to sit there quietly and regain her breath. It was a pleasant place, with the grassy slope before the house going down to the river, crossed, just here, by a little bridge. She sat watching the smooth water with its swinging lily pads and the quaint stone arch of the old bridge, thinking what a peaceful and picturesque spot it was.

“It looks almost like one of Aunt Susan’s picture post cards,” she reflected, “only I don’t think Aunt Susan would stop long at any such quiet and out-of-the-way place as this.”

There had been a gay-colored shower of bright postals from Aunt Susan lately, ships and hotels and panoramas of tropical scenes where the inhabitants seemed to have nothing to do but sit about on banks of flowers with brilliant green palms as a background. There were also bits of scenes like this one, places of historic association, chosen, Betsey knew, not because her aunt had spent much time viewing such spots, but because that type of post-card gave more space for correspondence. Aunt Susan never wrote letters. Each one of her pictured messages, however, ended with the words, “You ought to be with me.” But they had ceased to arouse any longings in Betsey’s heart.

The farmer’s wife presently returned with a glass of milk, some fresh rolls she had just taken from the oven, and honey from the row of blue beehives that stood at the foot of the garden.

“Joe tells me that you said the bird belongs to Miss Miranda Reynolds,” she said, seating herself ponderously at the other end of the bench while Elizabeth partook of the welcome refreshment, and scattered crumbs for Dick. “I suppose it must have belonged to Mr. Ted Reynolds before he went away. He was a great boy for pets always. I will never forget how he brought home a young alligator and let it get lost in the house so that the laundress finally found it at the bottom of her washtub of clothes.”

“Oh, did you know them?” cried Elizabeth. “Did you know Miss Miranda’s brother and her cousin and that big house on the hill?”

“I was housemaid there for seven years before I was married,” responded the woman. “It was Miss Miranda herself arranged the flowers for my wedding and gave me my wedding clothes. A dear beautiful place it was, that house. I would never have come away from it except to marry Joe.”

She smoothed her white apron over her knees and went on in eager reminiscence.

“I can remember every inch of it and am always telling the children about what I saw there. One thing I can’t forget was a big desk with glass doors and such strange ornaments on the shelves. There was a little pine tree carved out of something that looked like green glass. I used to stop and stare at it every time I dusted. Did they save that, do you know, when the place was burned?”

“Yes,” Betsey replied to the other’s evident relief, “the toy-cupboard is safe at the cottage.”

“I have always been waiting to hear that they were going to rebuild the house,” the woman went on, “but year after year goes by and they keep on living in the little cottage. Miss Miranda loved her home so, I know she is sick at heart to go back to it. I don’t understand it.”

“Nor do I,” observed Betsey with a sigh.

“It may be because of that work her father is doing,” suggested the other shrewdly. “Such things do take a power of money and I am certain Miss Miranda would do without anything rather than have him give it up. She would think that was her share of the success that she has always felt certain was coming. He has worked at the thing ten years now, he should be finishing it one of these days.” She dropped her voice to question Betsey with the earnestness of real friendship and devotion. “I don’t see her very often now, but I think of her all the time. Do you—do you think she is happy?”

Betsey shook her head slowly.

“I am afraid not,” she replied.

“Her father was always so anxious that she should be, he was absorbed in his work but he never would forget about that. He depended on her and consulted with her even when she was not a great deal bigger than you, yet was running the whole place and keeping the two boys in order. Mr. Ted adored her and she him, he was a fine fellow. But that Cousin Donald, we in the kitchen could never abide him with his sharp selfish face and his overbearing ways. She could face him down, but at heart she was afraid of him, I used to think. He could say such cruel, cutting things to hurt her, although she would never show it. I have known Mr. Ted to black his eye for him, for all he was so much younger, when he thought his sister had been made unhappy. Proud they are, and sensitive to the quick, father and daughter and son. That Donald Reynolds was an alien amongst them.”

Her flood of recollection went on, but began to wander to such details as Joe’s courting and how they were married, in which Betsey did not feel quite so great an interest, so that at last she took advantage of a slight pause in the talk to say that she must go. There was one more question she wished to ask.

“That cousin, what did he look like?”

“Oh, insignificant like,” was the somewhat vague answer. “He had black hair and eyes that were greenish, a little, they always put me in mind of boiled gooseberries. He was the sort of person bound to prosper, and after Miss Miranda helped to bring him up I wonder how he can see her want for anything. There now, if you must go I have a setting of eggs I’ve wanted to send over to her for her poultry yard, they’re the best in the state.”

She brought Betsey the package, rather apologetic that it should prove larger than she had intended.

“I just tucked some duck eggs into the box, too. This is an uncommon breed that Joe got me, and splendid for market. I’m sorry it’s such a big bundle and the way home so long. I do wish the horses weren’t all in the field or Joe could take you home in the cart. You tell Miss Reynolds that those are with Clara Bassett’s love and that she will never forget her. I will be over to see her myself, first chance I get.”

Her kind hostess stood watching her from the gate as Elizabeth set off homeward. She had been directed to take the path along the river bank and then turn into a cart track that went over the hill and she had been warned that it was “quite a ways.” She discovered herself to be more tired after her long chase than she had thought, and beginning to feel a few aches due to her jarring tumble over the wall. She tramped steadily onward, nevertheless, Dick riding on her shoulder and the bundle of eggs tucked under her arm. It was of awkward shape and size, and would slip no matter how she held it.

The path along the river did not seem to be taking her in the direction of home and it was discouragingly rough and stony. She sat down to rest, with her feet dangling over the bank above the water and began to think over what she had been hearing.

“Everybody who knows Miss Miranda seems to want to make her happy,” she reflected, “and the strange thing is that nobody can!”

She sat for some time listening to the cool splashing water slip away below her feet, then with a sigh got up to go onward.

“I think I’d better take a short cut across the fields,” she decided. “It won’t be half so far and I’m sure I can find the way. If only I don’t drop the eggs.”

The flight of a crow is supposed to be a direct route, but not the way of a crow pursued by a flock of his jealous kin. The chase that Dick had led her had been so crooked and confused that it was difficult indeed to find which was the shortest way home. She pushed through hedges, hurried down by-paths, stumbled into tangles of wild blackberry vines, but was not at all sure that she was making any real progress.

The round wooded hills and squares of well-kept field and meadow all looked much alike to her. A big house among the trees, showing tall stacks of brick chimneys and a tiled roof was, moreover, so completely unfamiliar that she became still more perplexed. The afternoon was coming to an end, she grew wearier and wearier and the box in her arms seemed continually heavier and more awkward. At last she stood still, having completely lost her bearings.

“Oh, Dick,” she said forlornly, “can’t you show me the way home?”

Dick, however, quite unabashed by the trouble he had caused, flew from her shoulder and began gravely hopping about the grass at the side of the way. Betsey looked about her desperately and saw a half-plowed field at some distance, bordered by a hedge.

“There may be some one at work there,” she thought, “and I can ask the way.”

But it seemed far indeed to drag her heavy feet up the hill, through a spur of woodland and along a rough lane between two hedges. She could hear the soft trampling of a horse’s hoofs on the loose earth and a cheerful whistling that told her that some sort of help must be at hand. Scrambling up the bank, she found a gap in the bushes, thrust her head through and began—

“If you please, will you tell me—oh!”

For the horse standing in the furrow, just unharnessed from the plow, was the big white Dobbin and the plowman was David Warren.

He came pushing through the hedge at once and, before a word was said, took the heavy parcel from her.

“You and Dick seem to be rather far from home,” he observed cheerfully.

“Be careful, it’s eggs!” she warned as he thrust the bundle under his arm.

“Dobbin and I were just going home,” he said. “Wait until I can drive him around by the gate and he’ll be proud to carry you. He’s not much of a saddle horse. His back is more like a seat in a Pullman car.”

He was quite right, for weary Betsey, once perched on the wide back, thought it the most luxurious spot on earth. The gentle old horse seemed entirely willing and, even when Dick came fluttering up to perch on one of the brass knobs of the heavy harness, he merely looked around with an expression of mild wonder to see what new sort of rider this might be. While they moved slowly up the lane, Elizabeth gave an account of the crow’s misadventures.

“Dick, you old rascal, if you ever give so much trouble again I will wring your neck,” the boy said severely, whereat the black bird cocked his eye and seemed to chuckle silently over the manifest untruth of such a threat.

There followed a little pause in their talk as they moved onward up the slope with Dobbin’s great feet rustling in the high weeds and his long shadow slipping so quietly ahead of them across the grass. The dropping sunlight was falling on David’s uncovered head and turning it from red-brown to coppery gold. They reached the crest of the slope where an opening in the trees afforded a wide view of that same stretch of valley across which Betsey had sat gazing that day she was caught by the shower before her first visit to Miss Miranda. Here, without a word of bidding the big horse came to a stop. David laughed, and laid an affectionate hand on his neck.

“Dobbin always knows where I like to stand and look over the valley,” he said. “We stop here so often that now he never goes by. I like to look at those college towers and wonder how I can go there some day.”

“Oh, are you going there?” cried Betsey with an excited wriggle that nearly unseated her; “so am I—if nothing happens.”

She thought of the geometrical and historical difficulties in the way and sighed.

“A great deal will have to happen before I get there,” David remarked light-heartedly, “but I mean to manage it somehow. Perhaps only Dobbin knows how much I think about it while I work here in my uncle’s fields.”

“Is that your uncle’s house?” questioned Betsey, looking up at the big chimneys above the trees.

“Yes, and all this land is his, up to Somerset Lane. He is away a great deal and expects me rather to keep an eye on things, but of course I work on the farm too. There is really almost no one else to do it with all the labor crowding into the cities. I try to study by myself at night but—I don’t get very far. There are some places where I think I will stick forever.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Betsey, suddenly seeing the explanation of that puzzling page that had fallen into her hands the night David’s papers blew away, “do you find it hard to prove what is the volume of the frustum of a pyramid?”

“Do I?” returned David from the bottom of his heart. His freckled face crinkled into a delighted grin as he looked up at her. “Don’t tell me that there is some one else who finds it as mysterious as I do! ‘The frustum of a pyramid is equal to three other pyramids,’ I can get that far and I can even understand the first one, but the second is almost too much for me, and the third is quite impossible.”

“And I,” returned Betsey gravely, “if I can once get the first one, I can go on to the end. It is just at the beginning that I always come to grief.”

“Perhaps you could help me and I could help you,” David suggested excitedly. “I would sleep easier at night if I could once get those three pyramids into my head. I have my book in that corner up at the ruined house. I believe we have time to look it up before you must go home. Come up, Dobbin!”

The willing old horse strode forward again.

“It’s not just geometry that bothers me,” Elizabeth confessed. “We had some questions in history to-day and it frightened me to have them show how little I knew. We were asked who were the Barbary pirates and what was the greatest time of America’s merchant marine. Those are just the things I never can remember.”

“History doesn’t seem so hard,” returned David, “except that, if you study it without a teacher, you get so interested in some parts that you forget to pay any attention to the others. You say that they asked you about the merchant marine and America’s ships? Now I never thought of paying any attention to that. Hurry, Dobbin. I begin to think that we have no time to lose.”

They turned into Somerset Lane, hastened up the final slope and left the white horse tied to the cottage gate. Miss Miranda seemed to be still at work in the garden, so they deposited Dick and the package of eggs in the kitchen and went scurrying across the lawn to the gate in the wall. If they were to vanquish their common enemy before dark it was necessary to make some speed.

The key of the gate stood in the lock, but was stiff and rusty and creaked as David forced its turning. They hurried along the grassy path, stooping under the low-hanging branches and brushing aside the unpruned shrubs. For some reason they trod more quietly and spoke more softly when they came within the circle of the open lawn. It seemed very breathless and silent in the late afternoon sunlight, this beautiful place with its black, motionless pine trees, its gleaming pool and its empty, ruined house open to the sky.

“I wish I understood about all this,” said Betsey, almost under her breath as they stood a moment by the still pool, “why the house was never rebuilt, why Miss Miranda works so hard and looks so worried and so sad.”

“There’s something strange about the place,” David agreed, “and Miss Miranda and her father are not like other people. Sometimes she seems to me like a person who sees a great trouble coming nearer and nearer and doesn’t know what to do.”

“I wish,” Betsey said with a deep wistful sigh, “oh, how I wish we could help her!”

“Perhaps we can,” returned David. He was looking about him intently, as though already deciding what could be done.

“I think,” Betsey went on, “that nothing could please me more in the world than to see Miss Miranda lose that worried, frightened look, and to know that she is comfortable and happy again.”

David shook his head.

“I want more than that,” he declared. “I’m not going to be satisfied until everything is as it was, until this house is rebuilt and they are living here again, safe and peaceful and at home. If we are to help at all, we should work for that. Shall we try?”

The ambition seemed to be rather an overwhelming one. To Elizabeth, as she looked about the still garden, sleeping in the level sunshine, it appeared that only something miraculous could awake it into stirring life again. But how much happiness it would bring! She often wondered what that strained look in Miss Miranda’s eyes could mean; she understood now, it was the look of some one who wants to go home.

“Yes,” she answered bravely, “we will try.”

It was a great undertaking and they shook hands upon it. They did not look very large, those two, under the shadow of the tall pines and of the vast, broken walls, as they stood beside the pool. They seemed, indeed, to be pledging themselves to the following of an impossible purpose. Yet, as Betsey’s firm vigorous hand met David’s hard brown one, suddenly it became a plan that might come true.