I had a good deal of time to myself—lessons only lasted two hours—and I roamed round the neighborhood studying it. The second afternoon I went into the woods, where there’s a short-cut that goes past Council Oaks to the beach. Off the path, branching to the right, I found two smaller trails both leading to the same place—a pond, surrounded by trees, and with a wharf, a rustic bench, and two bathing houses, where the trails ended. In my room that evening I asked Ellen, my chambermaid, about the pond and she told me it was called Little Fresh and that the bathing houses and wharf had been built by the former owner of Grasslands. But the first year of Mrs. Janney’s occupation a boy from the village had been drowned there, since when Mrs. Janney had forbidden any one to go near or bathe in Little Fresh. She had put up trespassing signs and locked the bath houses, and no one ever went there now, because, anyway if you didn’t go in and get drowned, folks said you might catch malaria. A few days after that Bébita asked me to go into the woods with her and look for lady-slippers; the kitchen maid had found two and Bébita had to see if there weren’t any left for her. Everybody said it was too late for them, but that didn’t faze Bébita who had the kitchen maid’s word for it and was set upon going. The woods were lovely, all green and shimmery with sunlight. We took the trail I’ve spoken of, I strolling along the path, and Bébita hunting about in the underbrush for the flowers. I was some little distance ahead of her when I saw a figure moving behind the screen of trees toward the right. I could only catch it in broken bits through the leaves, hear the footsteps soft on the moss, and I didn’t know whether it was a man or a woman. Then it came into view, out of the trail that led to Little Fresh Pond, and I saw it was a man, who stopped short at the sight of me. He was good-looking, the dark kind, naturally brown, and sunburned on top of it until he was as swarthy as an Indian, the little mustache on his upper lip as black as if it was painted on with ink. Now I’m not one that thinks men ought to be stunned by my beauty, but also I don’t expect to be stared at as if the sight of me was an unpleasant shock. And that’s the way that piratical guy acted, standing rooted, glaring angry from under his eyebrows. I was going to pass on haughty, when Bébita’s voice came from behind in a joyful cry of "Popsy." She rushed by me, her arms spread out, and fairly jumped at him. The ugly look went from his face as if you’d wiped it off with a sponge, and the one that took its place made him another man. He caught her up and held her against him, and she locked her feet behind his waist and her hands behind his neck swinging off from him and laughing out: "Oh, Popsy, I was looking for lady-slippers and I found _you_." "Well," he said, gazing at her like he couldn’t look enough, "would you rather have found a lady-slipper?"