Once Rosie came home almost breathless with rage. “What do you think has just happened, Maida?” she asked indignantly. “I was coming along the path when I saw a little opening in the bushes. It looked so pretty that I thought I’d cut into it. Just then I saw Silva Burle running--oh running like _sixty_--although she had a bottle of milk under her arm. She heard me coming and suddenly she disappeared through the bushes. But before she got away she made--oh the horridest face at me. I was so mad--” “She certainly is a strange girl,” Maida remarked in a perplexed tone. “I don’t understand why she acts so. We’ve never done anything to her. Why should she treat us like this?” Arthur also reported that once, early in the morning, he caught sight of Silva Burle flying along the path ahead of him, a bundle of--he could not tell what--under her arms. At the sound of his footsteps--Arthur said it was exactly as though she were afraid of something he might do--though, he added, what she expected him to do, he couldn’t guess, she flew to cover like a rabbit; actually vanished from his sight. But the most disagreeable of all was Laura’s experience. Rosie pointed out to her the little opening among the trees which had so interested her. The next day, passing it alone, it occurred to Laura that she would find out where it led. Like Rosie she walked through the underbrush--but she got farther than Rosie did. Suddenly she came against a trailing tree branch; she started to climb over it. One foot had planted itself. She lifted the other and--splash! A pail of water, hung on an over-hanging branch, fell on her, drenching her from head to foot. It spoiled the gloss of her freshly-ironed muslin frock of course, but it spoiled her temper more. Maida pondered all this evidence, utterly perplexed. Why the Burles should have taken such a dislike to them all she could not guess. She did not speak of it to her father because she was afraid he might complain to Aunt Save. And Maida did not want to make trouble for her friend. But under promise of secrecy, she discussed the situation with Billy Potter. For once, that astute young gentleman had no explanation of a curious social phenomenon. Billy Potter was coming to see them regularly now; so was Mr. Westabrook. They both had long talks with the children, collectively and separately. One afternoon as they were sitting in the living room a curious revelation occurred. Arthur was talking about the forest. It was plain to be seen that it fascinated him beyond measure. Often he would wake early in the morning; slip down to the Magic Mirror; canoe himself across its dawn-swept, glossy surface to the other side; wander for an hour or more in the woods. “I guess I’ll have to make a forester out of you,” Mr. Westabrook said that afternoon. “I hope you don’t stay up late at night.” His remark was not a question, only a comment.