She had telegraphed old Roger to meet her with the buckboard. Now, as
they drove up at twilight, Annie, his wife, stood in the cottage
doorway. Beyond among the rustling trees stood the log lodge of Norman
Westfall, far enough away for solitude and near enough, as Aunt Agatha
frequently recalled with comfort, to the cottage of the two old
servants for safety.
The lake stretched away to a dusk-dimmed shore set in a whispering line
of ghostly birches.
"There's wood in the fireplace, dearie!" said old Annie, patting the
girl's shoulder. "It's a wee bit chill yet, for all the summer ought
well be here. And you've not run away to the old lodge to cook and
keep house and play gypsy this many a day!"
"No," said Diane, "I haven't." She spoke of the van and Johnny.
"Dear! Dear!" quavered Annie, raising wrinkled, wondering hands.
"Think of that now! And like you, too! And you grown so like your
father, child, that I can't well keep my eyes off your face. And brown
as a berry from the sun. I've set a bit of a lunch in the great room
yonder, dearie. You'll likely be too tired to-night to be a gypsy."
Old Roger, who had consigned the buckboard and horses to a tall awkward
country lad who had slouched forward from the shadows, hurried off to
light the fire in the lodge.
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