They followed the main traveled road but a short way, turning off presently on what looked like an old wood road. It was almost overgrown with huckleberries and little pines, and the farther they went, the prettier and wilder it grew. At length they entered a magnificent piece of woodland where the chestnut and the maple, the tulip and the gum, the chestnut oak and the red oak and many other beautiful trees grew together. Then behold, in the midst of this they came upon a gateway made of great logs, with an iron lantern hanging from each end of the crosspiece, and above it in rustic letters the words “Rowantree Hall.” “I feel,” said Carin, “as if I might come upon the Sleeping Princess at any moment.” “And I feel,” Azalea answered, “as if we might all be turned into sleeping princesses. Oh, Keefe, are you sure this is not an enchanted wood?” Keefe looked back over his shoulder gayly. “I’m not at all sure,” he said. “If you know of any way of keeping off enchantments—” “I don’t want to keep them off,” Carin called. “Oh, how wonderful it all is! Aunt Zillah, we are going to have an adventure.” “No doubt,” said Aunt Zillah, quite as light-hearted and care-free as any of the young people. “It is impossible to avoid adventures. Life itself is an adventure.” They had to ride a mile after they entered the gate before they came to the house, and the only indications that they were near the habitation of man were the paths which ran here and there among laurel or rhododendron, and the rustic seats which were placed at intervals along the way. But at last the house arose before them. It had started out to be what Mr. Carson would have called a Southern mansion. The double gallery should have been supported by fluted pillars, but instead of these classic shafts, the boles of eight great chestnut trees served the purpose. The house had never been properly painted, only “primed” with ochre which had faded until it was almost the color of the ground around it, but over this had grown a multitude of vines. English ivy, Virginia creeper, trumpet flower, honeysuckle, purple and white clematis, the Dorothy Perkins rose and the matrimony vine climbed, ramped, and enwrapped according to their dispositions, till the ragged looking house was as gay as a castle with banners. On the lower gallery, in white linen, very stately and hospitable in appearance, sat Rowantree himself. “What a pleasure to have guests,” he said with an English accent, coming forward to assist Miss Zillah from her horse. “We have been looking forward to this honor with the greatest appreciation.”