"You talk like a veritable schoolmaster," laughed Mrs. Allan, teasingly.
"Have you forgotten that when Uncle Peter Westley left Highacres to the Lincoln School it made me trustee of the school? That's almost as bad as being the principal. And this year I'm going to take an active interest in the school, too. The doctor says I must have a 'diversity' of interests to offset the strain of making cement-mixers and I think to rub up against two hundred boys and girls will fill the bill, don't you? They've remodeled the building at Highacres this summer and completed one addition. There are twenty acres of ground, too, for outdoor athletics."
"What a wonderful gift," mused Mrs. Allan, recalling the pile of stone and marble old Peter Westley had built in the outskirts of his city that could never have been of any possible use to himself because he had been a crusty old bachelor who hated to have anyone near him. Gossip had said that he had built it just because he wanted his house to cost more than any other house in the city; unworthy as his motive in building it might have been, he had forever ennobled the place when he had bequeathed it to the boys and girls of his city.
"There'll be a chance, with the school out there, of offsetting just what's threatening Isobel and Gyp--a sort of grownupness they're putting on--like a masquerade costume!"
"I love your very manlike way of describing things," laughed Mrs. Allan, recalling certain experiences of her own when, for six months, she had undertaken the care of her own niece, Patricia Everett. "It's so--_vivid_! A masquerade make-up, too big and too long, and then when you peep under the 'grown-up' costume, there's the little girl still--really loving to frolic around in the delightful sports that belong to youth and youth only."
John Westley rode on for a few moments in deep silence, his mind on the young people he loved--then suddenly it veered to the little girl he had found on the Wishing-rock, her eyes staring longingly out into a dream-world that lay beyond valley and mountain top.
"I've an idea--a--_corker_!" he exclaimed, just as the Fly-by-day bounced into the grass-grown drive of Cobble House.
"Gyp Westley, get right down off from that chair! You _know_ mother doesn't want you to stand on it!"