"Let us call it Rainbow Valley," said Walter delightedly, and
Rainbow Valley thenceforth it was.

Outside of Rainbow Valley the wind might be rollicking and
boisterous. Here it always went gently. Little, winding, fairy
paths ran here and there over spruce roots cushioned with moss.
Wild cherry trees, that in blossom time would be misty white,
were scattered all over the valley, mingling with the dark
spruces. A little brook with amber waters ran through it from
the Glen village. The houses of the village were comfortably far
away; only at the upper end of the valley was a little
tumble-down, deserted cottage, referred to as "the old Bailey
house." It had not been occupied for many years, but a
grass-grown dyke surrounded it and inside was an ancient garden
where the Ingleside children could find violets and daisies and
June lilies still blooming in season. For the rest, the garden
was overgrown with caraway that swayed and foamed in the
moonshine of summer eves like seas of silver.

To the sought lay the pond and beyond it the ripened distance
lost itself in purple woods, save where, on a high hill, a
solitary old gray homestead looked down on glen and harbour.
There was a certain wild woodsiness and solitude about Rainbow
Valley, in spite of its nearness to the village, which endeared
it to the children of Ingleside.

The valley was full of dear, friendly hollows and the largest of
these was their favourite stamping ground. Here they were
assembled on this particular evening. There was a grove of young