One afternoon, as Nathalie was preparing to take the children on a tramp to Butternut Lodge, an old farmhouse on the opposite side of Garnet Mountain, that had been fitted up for picnic parties by the proprietor of a near-by hotel, her mother called her.

“Nathalie,” she said, as the girl appeared in answer to her call, “I wish you would run over to the little red house and see Mrs. Carney. Sam tells me she is ill, and that his wife, who generally looks after her, is visiting some relatives. It would be only neighborly if you would take her some fruit custard; there is plenty in the ice-box, left over from dinner.”

“But mumsie,” pleaded the girl in an annoyed tone, “I can’t go this afternoon, for I have promised to take the children to Butternut Lodge. And then,” she added rebelliously, “I don’t want to go to see that horrid old woman. Why, I thought that you had decided not to have anything to do with her, after the disagreeable way she acted!”

“Yes, that is so, daughter,” replied Mrs. Page with a slight smile, “but, like a good Christian, I changed my mind, a privilege I reserve to myself when occasion warrants. When I heard from Sam that the poor creature was alone in the world, I made up my mind to play the part of the good Samaritan. We can well overlook the oddities of the aged, and it must be trying to lie there all alone, with no one to give you a helping hand or a comforting word.”

Nathalie was not conquered, as she had a stubborn will, and she had been rudely repulsed so many times that she felt her duty did not require her to accept any more humiliations. She was about to argue the case, when suddenly the motto that she had vowed to make her own that summer, flashed before her mental vision with a vivid distinctness.

Making no reply, she slowly walked out on the lawn, where the children stood waiting for her. After explaining her reasons for giving up the afternoon hike, she turned to hurry into the house, determined to get the disagreeable task over as soon as possible. Halfway up the steps she paused, her eyes lit up with an amused thought evidently, for, with a half-laugh, she turned and hurried back to the group standing with woe-begone faces, trying to think what they could do to ease their disappointment. A moment later they were crowding about her, listening eagerly as she talked, their faces keen and bright, as if with the inspiration of a novel appeal. Some time later, Nathalie, with a queer little smile dimpling the corners of her mouth, knocked softly on the screen-door leading into the little red house. As she heard a faint “Come in!” in answer, she gently pushed the door open and entered. In her hands she carried a bowl, while behind her, all cautiously tiptoeing, as if afraid of making the slightest sound, came four small figures, each one carefully holding something for the invalid, whom they found lying on a couch in the front room.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Carney,” said Nathalie, and then, in a distressed tone, “Oh, I’m afraid we have disturbed you, but Sam said you were not feeling well, and mother sent me over with the boys, to see if we could not help you in some way. We have brought you something, too, that may possibly make you feel better.”

The girl was in the throes of despair, as no reply came from the recumbent figure, only the slow-moving of a big fan. O dear! she thought, perhaps her little ruse to relieve the awkwardness of a most curious situation was not going to succeed.

But at this instant, Sheila came forward. Her sympathies had been aroused on learning about the curious old lady, and on finding that there was nothing for her to carry to the sick one, she had gone out to the roadside and gathered a big bunch of wild flowers, to her a panacea for every ill. These she now thrust towards the figure on the couch, crying, in her sweet childish treble, “I’m sorry, lady, you’re sick, but here’s some flowers; I picked ’em for you.” The child spoke in a half-frightened tone, somewhat at a loss to understand the silence beneath the handkerchief-covered face.

Suddenly the handkerchief was withdrawn, and the old lady sat bolt upright, with a startled exclamation, gazing in amazed wonder at the four small figures, with their pleading eyes and offerings of sympathy, standing in a row before her.

“Bless me!” she cried, a half smile dawning in her sharp eyes. “Where did these children come from?”

“Oh—why—they’re my Liberty boys,” answered Nathalie quickly, with a sudden flash of relief that at last the old lady’s silence was broken.

“Your Liberty boys?” she questioned with some bewilderment, as she peered keenly at the slim young figure. “But you’re too young to have these boys.”

“Oh, but they’re not mine! I’m not married.” exclaimed Nathalie, a merry note in her voice. “Why, I’ve just adopted them for the summer, so I call them my boys. I suppose they’re what you call Fresh-Air-Funders; that is, they live on the East Side in New York, and I’m afraid the poor things wouldn’t have had any outing if I hadn’t brought them up here to get a breath of this mountain air, and—”

But at this point, Jean, scrupulously faithful to Nathalie’s drilling, took a step forward, and, holding out his plate of fruit, in his fright forgetting the little English he knew, cried, “Voici du fruit!”

The woman peered at the boy, and then, with a slight cry as she saw the little empty sleeve, drew him to her, as she took the plate of fruit carefully from his hand. “Why, you poor lad!” she exclaimed in sudden tenderness. “So you have some fruit for me. Is he a refugee?” she queried softly, turning inquiringly towards Nathalie.

As the girl nodded dumbly, Tony pushed forward his offering, a covered dish of milk toast. Quickly removing the cover, he smacked his lips with gusto, while his velvety eyes glanced in a smile, as if to say, “Here’s something nice for you, too!”

By this time Nathalie saw that the atmosphere had cleared, and after she and Danny had proffered their gifts,—some chicken soup and custard,—with the help of the boys she drew a table to the side of the couch. Deftly unfolding a napkin for a covering, she spread out the toothsome dainties before her hostess, while Sheila, in childish prattle, entertained her new friend by telling about the fairies, whom she insisted lived in the flowers.

As the old lady partook of the edibles that had been prepared for her, the children, won by her seeming interest, with childish confidence told her about their lives in the city, how they liked the beautiful mountains, all about their many battles down at the old stone ledge, and how they were all learning to be Sons of Liberty. This drew Nathalie into the conversation, and she was soon animatedly telling how she happened to become a Liberty Girl, and how she was not only trying to carry out her plans in regard to liberty up there in the mountains, but was anxious to help the children know what it meant to become good Americans, and to understand why our nation had sent soldiers across the sea to fight the Hun.

Tony needed but one invitation, and the violin was brought forth from under his arm,—he always carried it,—and presently he was playing some little Italian airs, after which Jean sang Belgium’s national anthem, at Mrs. Carney’s request, and Danny recited a war-poem that Janet had taught him. Even Sheila contributed her quota to the impromptu entertainment and recited “Betsy’s Battle Flag,” as she, too, was a pupil of Janet’s, that young lady having become so interested in the children that she had not only helped her friend to teach them to sing, but had taught them to recite.

But now it was time to go, as Nathalie did not want to weary Mrs. Carney, although, to the girl’s surprise, that lady insisted that her sick headache had disappeared, cured, she laughingly confessed, by the young visitors, who had entertained her so charmingly.

With the promise to call again with her charges, Nathalie hurried them away, happily content that she had followed her mother’s suggestion and tried to be helpful and kind to her seemingly odd little neighbor. “It pays to be pleasant with people,” she remarked sagely, as she related the results of the visit. “For even if you don’t like them it gives you a pleasant feeling to think that you have done ‘your bit’ in keeping the chain of brotherly love well oiled.”

Mrs. Page sat knitting on the veranda the following morning when Nathalie came hurrying out of the house with an angry light in her eyes. “Oh, mother, what do you think?” she exclaimed irritably. “Cynthia has set the children all looking for that mystery thing. Did you ever hear of anything so absurd? And they have gone wild about it, and are running around the attic and the upper floors, pulling things about in a most disorderly fashion. Oh, I do think she is the limit!”

Mrs. Page looked at Nathalie in silence for a moment, and then said, with some amusement in her eyes, “It is absurd, but don’t get wrought up about it. Cynthia hasn’t stopped to think. She is so anxious to find it that it has become an obsession with her. But it won’t do to let the children get mixed up in anything of that kind.” Her face sobered, and for a space the only sound was the clicking of her knitting-needles, while Nathalie, with a frown on her face, pondered how she was going to undo the mischief that Cynthia had wrought, keenly realizing what would follow if the children were not stopped in looking for something that she knew they would never find.

“Go and tell the children to come here, Nathalie,” said her mother, “and we’ll have a little talk.” The girl, with a brighter face, complied, as she always felt greatly relieved, when anything went wrong with her boys, to have her mother straighten things out.

In a moment they were on the veranda, looking very much bedraggled and dust-begrimed, as, with faces eagerly alert, they told what they had been doing, after a little adroit questioning on the part of Mrs. Page. It did not take the good lady long to make it clear to the mystery-seekers that this valuable thing that they had been searching for was something that only concerned Nathalie and her cousins.

She now made it clear to them that the searching was undoubtedly a whim on the part of the former inmate of Seven Pillars, and that the finding of it simply meant a reward to the one of the three girls who had proved the most industrious in looking for it. She ended by saying that it would not likely be of any great value, adding, “And, children, it would not be yours even if you found it.”

“Oh, but we’re going to give it to Miss Natty!” came a chorus of determined little voices. “And Miss Cynthia said it was something awful rich,” added Sheila, “and I just guess that it must be a great big jewel, or a pot of gold.” “Sure, and we want Miss Natty to have it,” ended Danny, with big, disappointed eyes.

This was not the first time that Mrs. Page had had to do away with a seeming mystery connected with Mrs. Renwick’s peculiar instructions. For the mystery-room had proved a source of morbid curiosity to the children, as they questioned as to what was behind that great, dark red curtain. They would scurry by the door with bated breath and big, excited eyes, in whose depths lurked a latent fear of some unknown terror, until Mrs. Page had ordered the curtain down, declaring that the door simply closed, and barred, would end the mystery.

Fortunately the children’s attention was now turned to other matters, but Nathalie, somehow, could not put the incident from her mind. She had a vague, conscience-stricken feeling that she would never gain the reward for being industrious, for although she had not failed to make an entry in her diary, she had failed to search as diligently as she should have done. Whereupon, with a silent vow that she would put aside an hour every day for this disagreeable task, she hastened upstairs to put her plan in execution.

Nathalie was lying in the hammock in the moonlight a few evenings later, half-drowsing. She was more than usually tired, for they had spent the day at Butternut Lodge. It had been an all-day hike, setting forth in the forenoon with a climb up old Garnet, starting in at the log gate-posts opposite Peckett’s flower-garden.

Ascending a grassy incline studded with rocks, where mountain-sheep and a gray donkey meandered, nibbling the coarse grass, they entered the cool damp of the forest gloom, where hundreds of trees confronted them. Age-ringed and gnarled, their limbs twisted in eerie contortion to grotesque shapes, they stood in the dim cathedral light bristling with shadows, a battalion of ghoulish-looking sentinels, guarding the rock-crowned heights.

But on they climbed, up the pine-needled path, stepping from lichen-covered rocks to gnarled tree-roots, or clambering deftly over blackened, flame-licked tree-trunks, that barred their way like yawning chasms. Every now and then they would stop to gather some tiny wood posy peeping coquettishly from the crevice of a broken crag, or a crimson-dyed leaf on a mossy patch, or to brush aside the black loam to burrow among dead leaves for feathery ferns, or one of the tiny umbrellas, as Sheila called the many-colored toadstools that grew by the path. But when the little maid spied a fleur des fÉes, a daintily-colored anemone, her delight was beyond bounds.

Sometimes they would pause to listen to the mountain-wind as it swayed the tops of long rows of trees, that, with the daring recklessness of new life, stretched their bare-limbed trunks upward to catch the golden sunlight on their glossy leaves. But the sweetest melody, perhaps, was the wind that swept in solemn-toned harmony through the twisted boughs of the old mountain-guard.

But the wind was not the only musician that sunny morning up there in the stilled hush of the green wood, for sometimes it was the soft note of a belated bird’s warble, coming with a haunting sweetness from the dim recesses of the shadowed gloom, or the hammer of a woodpecker as he plied his tool of trade.

But feathered songsters and musical wind were forgotten when the children struck the Red Trail,—splashes of red paint smeared at intervals on the bark of the trees to keep travelers in the path. The boys, as they scurried ahead, soon discovered a Yellow Trail, and then a Blue Trail, sign-posts to the lone woodchopper, perhaps, as he comes down the woodland path in the deep snows of winter. The Yellow Trail, they discovered, led down the mountain, coming out on the road near Lovers’ Lane, the wooded path opposite Seven Pillars. Nathalie now showed them how to blaze a trail that belonged exclusively to the Girl Pioneers, and their interest became tense with excitement as she became their leader and deftly bent the twigs in the shapes that meant so many things to the Pioneers.

A little log cabin nestling beneath a clump of pine trees, on the edge of a slope, just below Agassiz’s Rock, tempted the children to wander from the beaten path. But they soon returned, and, in wide-eyed wonder, declared that they had seen a pair of shoes by the door. Sheila was quite insistent that some fairy godmother lived there, whereupon she was rudely told by the boys that fairies never wore shoes. The children, however, were loth to leave the spot, curiously wondering as to who lived in the log hut.

But as no one was to be seen, either within or without the cabin, they followed Nathalie, and were soon standing on a jagged rock on Garnet’s top, in a wonderland of views that made them feel that they were indeed birds of the air, skimming swiftly through a dim, mystical atmosphere. With hushed breath and wide-seeing eyes they gazed down upon low-lying valleys,—dabs of green between craggy rocks and lofty steeps, gemmed with silver water, yellow corn-fields, and brown pasture-land. And above all, in picturesque grandeur, towered a rim of battlemented crests and ridges, silhouetted against curtains of crystalline blue, where sweeps of white cloud drifted in gossamer veils.

On the wide green slopes surrounding the farmhouse the children reveled in a summer-land of daisies and buttercups, that jeweled the softly creeping grass. While Sheila wove a wreath of mountain posies Nathalie told how, some years before, a bag of gold had been found in a log of wood in the old farmhouse. This added a new glory to the scene, and there were many surmises in regard to this find, while the Girl Pioneer plied her craft and showed them how to make leaf-impressions in their little note-books, as each one had gathered a leaf from many trees on their way up the mountain.

After Danny had made a camp-fire and they had had a hike lunch of frankfurters, roasted potatoes, and many toothsome edibles found in their lunchboxes, they hurried back to the old farmhouse, and while the children peeped into the old-fashioned brick ovens in search of another pot of gold, Janet played on the yellow-keyed piano. Then came a stroll to a weather-beaten barn, where an old coach was stored, which had once been the mountain’s only method of conveyance, some decades ago, and on which was the name “Goodnow House.” Of course they all had to mount the rickety steps and crawl inside on the wide leather-cushioned seat, large enough to hold almost a dozen children. Danny and Tony, however, soon clambered out and mounted still higher, up to the two-step-driver’s seat, where they pretended they were driving a tally-ho, with Sheila and Jean sitting back, within the railed top, as outside passengers, while Nathalie and Janet, on the wide old seat within, acted the part of tourists traveling to the top of Mount Washington.

Wearying of these childish sports, Nathalie and Janet hied themselves back to the farmhouse, where, after resisting the inclination to drowse, induced by the lulling hum of the bees as they darted busily about in the sweet-scented, sunny air, they sat down on the little porch and took out their knitting.

Suddenly the deep silence that they had drifted into, lured to thought by their active fingers, was broken by loud squeals, mingled with boyish shouts of laughter. And then a thrill came, as Nathalie suddenly perceived the old stage-coach, drawn by Danny and Tony as horses, while Jean, as the driver, was exultantly happy, perched up in the driver’s high seat. Sheila, meanwhile, bewreathed and betwined with wild posies, sat within the coach, posing as a beautiful white princess who had been captured by bandits.

Nathalie’s heart swung in wild leaps as she saw the one-armed boy’s perilous position, as the ramshackle, clumsy coach rocked like a cradle, and realized what it would mean if anything happened to it, as it was a most valuable relic to the proprietor of the hotel.

With a sudden cry she jumped to her feet, and a moment later was excitedly explaining to the would-be bandits the wrong they had committed. In disappointed silence Jean was helped down from the top of the coach, and Sheila, in whimpering protest, was hauled out. Then, amid a profound and tragic stillness to the children, they managed, with the help of the two girls, to get the stage back in the barn. Whereupon, Nathalie closed the door and marched her charges off in another direction, while pondering how to amuse them, for she had learned that their active brains and nimble fingers must be kept busy or mischief would brew.

A low cry from Sheila roused her, to see a few feet away, on the outskirts of the wood, a baby deer, gazing at them with mild eyes of wonder. But the cries from the boys caused it to leap wildly into the woods.

Such had been the events of the day.

Nathalie stirred uneasily, as a ray of moonshine fell athwart her face. She rubbed her eyes, and then sat up in the hammock, staring about in a bewildered, sleepy fashion. “Why, I must have been dreaming,” she thought, vaguely conscious that she had been living over again the long day with its many adventures.

“But it must be late; the children should be in bed.” She could hear Danny and Tony down on the lawn, their voices in loud and excited argument. O dear! she hoped they were not going to fight again, and then she gave a hurried “Tru-al-lee!”

At the familiar call the boys came hurrying across the lawn, when, to her surprise, she saw that Sheila was not with them. As she questioned them sharply as to her whereabouts, they insisted that they supposed that she was with her. The girl, somewhat alarmed, for the little lady was inclined to wander off by herself, instituted a search. The barn, grounds, Lovers’ Lane opposite, and even the little red house were peeped into, but all to no purpose.

As Sam was in Littleton for the night, the boys were dispatched to Sugar Hill village to make inquiries, while she and Janet, who had just returned from a stroll in the moonlight with Mrs. Page, started to look on the road leading to “The Echoes.” Some time later the searchers returned to Seven Pillars to report that no clews as to the child’s whereabouts had been discovered. Suddenly distracted, conscience-stricken, Nathalie gave a low wail.

“Oh, I do believe she has gone to the top of Garnet Mountain!” The girl had suddenly remembered that for several days Sheila had been telling how one of the boarders at Peckett’s—a lady as white as snow—had told her that every moonlight night at twelve o’clock the fairies came out of the woods and danced on the top of Garnet. She had even suggested that if Sheila could see them, she might be rewarded by receiving some of the beautiful garnets that were hidden in the rocks, and which only the fairies knew where to find.

There was a grim silence at Nathalie’s cry, as each one stared at the other with a white, dismayed face, while Nathalie, with clasped hands, nervously swayed herself to and fro.

A sudden scuffle of small feet caused them all to swing about, to see Danny hurrying towards the door. “Oh, where are you going, Dan?” cried Nathalie in a choked voice, staring at the lad with bewildered eyes.

“I’m going to find my sister—Sheila—” came in a strangled sob from the boy.

“But don’t go alone. I will go with you,” exclaimed Nathalie, quickly springing to his side, as he stood with his face buried in his elbow, while his slim body heaved convulsively.

It was soon decided that Janet and Dan would climb the mountain-trail that came out near Lovers’ Lane, Mrs. Page and Tony would hurry in the direction of Hildreth’s farm, while Nathalie and Jean would follow the Red Trail of the mountain, opposite Peckett’s hotel.

Twenty minutes later Nathalie and Jean, breathless from their hurried climb, paused for a moment by a big tree that stood ghoulishly somber by the path. As the girl, still panting, leaned against it, a ray of moonlight filtering through the canopy of leaves overhead showed that it was the Seat Tree, as they had named it on their climb that morning, on account of its singular formation.

By some freak of nature, from its main trunk, a short space from the ground, another trunk had sprung, giving it the appearance of two trees in one, and in this hollow some kindly-intentioned person had placed a seat. As the girl perceived the seat she sat down, and feeling Jean’s soft breath come puffing against her cheek, drew the tired boy down on her lap. Tige, the yellow terrier, crouched at their feet, his red tongue hanging out of his mouth like a signal-light in the weird darkness.

Fortunately the darkness of the ascent had been lightened at intervals by the moon, which was at its full, so that the girl had not been compelled to use her flashlight except in the deeply shadowed places. When they had begun to climb, Jean had whistled, his customary way of calling Sheila, while Nathalie had not only called the child by name, but had given her Pioneer call of “Tru-al-lee.”

But these calls had only re-echoed through the cathedral arches with such a dismal, dirge-like sound that they had desisted. Feeling sure that the child would keep near the path, Nathalie had kept her eyes busy peering on all sides of her, thinking that she could easily discern Sheila’s white dress if she was anywhere near.

All at once a low cry escaped the girl, as, with a convulsive clutch of Jean’s slight body, she bent forward, and peered through the eerie tree-shadows to a dim, flickering light that shone some distance beyond in the deep recesses of the forest. As the boy’s eyes followed her glance, in a tense whisper he cried, “Oh, Mademoiselle! see, there is a man digging in the ground!”