As he drew nearer and entered the main street, the clump of trees became giant elms, their interlaced branches making shaded cloisters of the village streets. The buildings now became more distinct; first a tavern with a swinging sign, and across the open common a quaint church with a white tower. At the end of the avenue of trees, under the biggest of the elms, stood an old-fashioned farmhouse, its garden-gate opening on the highway, and its broad acres--one hundred or more--reaching to the line of the vagabond brook. This was Margaret's home. The stage stopped; the hair-trunk and sketch-trap were hauled out of the dust-begrimed boot and deposited on the sidewalk at the foot of the giant elm. Oliver swung back the gate and walked up the path in the direction of the low-roofed porch, upon which lay a dog, which raised its head and at the first click of the latch came bounding toward him, barking with every leap. "Needn't be afraid, she won't hurt you!" shouted a gray-haired man in his shirt-sleeves, who had risen from his seat on the porch and who was now walking down the garden-path. "Get out, Juno! I guess you're the young man that's been painting with our Margaret up in the Gorge. She's been expecting you all morning. Little dusty, warn't it?" Oliver's face brightened up. This must be Margaret's father! "Mr. Grant, I suppose?" "Yes, that's what they call me--Silas Grant. Let me take your bag. My son John will be here in a minute, and will help you in with your trunk. Needn't worry, it's all right where it is. Folks are middling honest about here," he added, with a dry laugh, and his hand closed on his guest's--a cold limp, dead-fish sort of a hand, Oliver thought. Oliver said he was sure of it, and that he hoped Miss Margaret was well, and the old man said she was, "Thank you," and Oliver surrendered the bag--it was his sketch-trap--and the two walked toward the house. During the mutual greetings the dog sniffed at Oliver's knees and looked up into his face. "And I suppose this is Juno," our hero said, stopping to pat her head. "Good dog--you don't remember me?" It seemed easier somehow to converse with Juno than with her master. The dog wagged her tail, but gave no indications of uncontrollable joy at meeting her rescuer again. "Oh, you've seen her? She's Margaret's dog, you know." "Yes, I know, but she's forgotten me. I saw her before I ever knew--your daughter." It was a narrow escape, but he saved himself in time. "Blessed old dog," he said to himself, and patted her again.