cheeks scarlet with excitement and the warmth of a hot September
morning. The cottage was a mile from the old home. They drove along
the maple shaded street for the first half of the distance, then turned
into a dirt road that led toward the lake shore. The dirt road emerged
on the shore a half mile above the Willows and wound along a high
embankment, crowned with oaks.

"Whoa!" shouted the driver.

"Oh, isn't it pretty!" exclaimed Lydia.

An old-fashioned white cottage, with green blinds and a tiny front
porch, stood beside the road, its back to the lake. There were five
acres or so of ground around the house, set off by a white picket
fence. At the gate a pine tree stood. There were oaks and lilac
bushes in the front yard. Through the leaves, Lydia saw the blue of
the lake.

"Our yard runs right down to the water!" she cried, as the driver
lifted the baby down and she followed after. "Gee! I'm glad we moved!"

"It is a nice little spot," said the driver, "but kinda lonely." He
set the perambulator inside the fence, then balanced the dining-room
table on his head and started up the path to the door.

Lydia looked along the road, where an occasional house was to be seen.

"I hope kids live in those houses," she said, "but if they don't, baby
and the lake are company enough for me, and Kent can come out on his
wheel."