The arrangement was satisfactory, as Betty would have to travel alone only the few miles that separated the two places. It was a lovely day, and in her neat blue traveling-suit and straw hat Betty was a very pretty and contented-looking little tourist. She chattered to her mother all the way, and when the train stopped at Pleasant Hill, she kissed Mrs. McGuire good-by, and followed the porter, who carried her suitcase from the car. Betty watched the cars round the curve, and then turned to look for the Carey motor. She didn’t see it at first, but, as the railroad station was set rather high, and there were steps near by, she assumed the street was below the street-level and she must go down the stairs. But it did seem as if Lena might have come down to welcome her, for a strange railroad station is always a bit confusing to a new-comer. Not seeing a porter, or indeed any one, about, Betty picked up her suitcase and started down the stairs. At the bottom she saw a pleasant shaded road, but very few signs of civilization. However, Lena had told her that Pleasant Hill was merely a “jumping-off place,” but that their own cottage there was delightful. Betty didn’t mind the lack of people or buildings in general, but she did mind the absence of the Careys. She couldn’t understand it, for she knew she was expected; but she concluded they must have been delayed for some reason, and she had nothing to do but wait. Just at that moment, she saw a man driving by in an old farm-wagon. “Wait a minute!” she called, for he was nearly past. “Hey! what do you want?” the man called back, but he stopped his team, and waited as Betty came down the steps. “Excuse me,” she said politely, “but have you seen a motor-car around the station?” The man ruminated. “Wal, no, miss, I hevn’t. Leastwise, not to-day.” “But I mean to-day—just now. I’m expecting the Careys to meet me. I just came on the train.” “Ye did, hey? Well, that ’ere train was a good half-hour late. So, if so be’s them Careys was here, like as not they got tired o’ waitin’ an’ went away again.” “Where is the Carey place, do you know?” “Wal, yes’m, I do know. It’s a matter o’ three miles along the hill road. I’ll take you out thar myself if ye like. It’ll cost you a quarter, though—and I’m not very busy.” So she climbed up on the wagon-seat, and the old farmer turned his horse and off they went. It was mostly uphill, and therefore slow going, but at last they came in sight of a white house nestling in a tangle of green shrubbery and bright flowers. “How pretty!” exclaimed Betty; “is that the Carey place?” “It be,” vouchsafed the taciturn one, and Betty asked no further questions. They drove in at the green, arched entrance, and up a winding road to the house. It was a truly summery dwelling, with large windows, wide verandas, screens and awnings. The farmer climbed slowly down from his seat, slowly took Betty’s suitcase and set it on the porch.