back of the new hotel that had just been opened in this quiet country
place. Then his glance fell on the two small strangers coming through
his gate down the avenue toward him. One was the friskiest dog he had
ever seen in his life. The other was a child he judged to be about five
years old.

Her shoes were covered with dust, and her white sunbonnet had slipped
off and was hanging over her shoulders. A bunch of wild flowers she had
gathered on the way hung limp and faded in her little warm hand. Her
soft, light hair was cut as short as a boy's.

There was something strangely familiar about the child, especially in
the erect, graceful way she walked.

Old Colonel Lloyd was puzzled. He had lived all his life in
Lloydsborough, and this was the first time he had ever failed to
recognize one of the neighbours' children. He knew every dog and horse,
too, by sight if not by name.

Living so far from the public road did not limit his knowledge of what
was going on in the world. A powerful field-glass brought every passing
object in plain view, while he was saved all annoyance of noise and
dust.

"I ought to know that child as well as I know my own name," he said to
himself. "But the dog is a stranger in these parts. Liveliest thing I
ever set eyes on! They must have come from the hotel. Wonder what they
want."

He carefully wiped the lens for a better view. When he looked again he