Leaving her suitcase on the steps, she went up on the porch and rang the door-bell. While awaiting an answer she let her gaze stray over the surrounding landscape. It was wonderfully beautiful, and, as Betty had a passion for pure color, the clear cobalt sky, the various bright and deep greens of the trees, the smooth gray of a little lake, and the purple of the distant hills thrilled her color-loving soul. “They couldn’t have found a lovelier spot,” thought Betty, “and,” she added to herself, “if ever I find them, I’ll tell them so.” Her ring at the bell had not been answered, and she turned back to the front door to find it as tightly closed as ever. “Well, I like the Careys’ notions of hospitality,” she said grimly, as she rang the bell again, this time somewhat more forcibly. Still the door did not open, and Betty felt decidedly puzzled. Again she rang the bell, and could hear for herself its long, buzzing ring. But nobody answered it, and though she felt sure everything would soon be all right, yet she began to feel a little queer. “I know it’s the right house,” she thought, “for here’s Lena’s fan in the hammock. That’s the fan I gave her, so she must have left the house lately.” Greatly puzzled, Betty went around to the back part of the house. She knocked and banged on the kitchen door, but received no response of any sort. She tried the door, but it was evidently locked and would not open. She peered in at a window, but all she could see was some dishes piled on the kitchen table. “Well, I do declare!” she said aloud, “if this isn’t a lovely way to receive an invited guest!” Though unwilling to admit it, even to herself, Betty was feeling decidedly disturbed. There was a mistake somewhere, that was quite evident. She knew the mistake was not hers, for Lena had written careful directions about her journey, and had said the motor would meet the train. Resolving to ring the bell again, Betty went slowly back to the front door. The landscape did not appear quite so attractive as it had at first, and Betty was conscious of a queer depression about her heart. “I’m not scared!” she assured herself; “I won’t be scared! They _must_ be in the house. Perhaps they’re—perhaps they’re cleaning the attic!” Though not very probable, this seemed a possibility, and Betty pushed the bell with force enough to summon even people busily absorbed in work. But nobody came, and in despair Betty gave up the attic theory. Half involuntarily, for she had no thought of its being unlocked, she turned the knob of the front door. To her surprise, it opened readily, and she stepped inside. “Well, for goodness’ sake!” she exclaimed. “Now, they must be at home, or they would have locked the front door.” Then she called: “Lena! Lena, where are you?” But no one answered, and her voice reverberated in what was unmistakably an empty house. Betty gave a little shiver. There is something uncanny in being the only occupant of a strange house.