Over the lower wall swept the chase and over the wall went Betsey in pursuit, clambering up one side by the aid of a leaning pear tree and half sliding, half tumbling down on the other. She reached the ground with rather of a thud, but she picked herself up and ran on, paying no attention to the jarring fall. The way went across plowed fields now, and through bramble hedges, past a stream or two and even into a swampy meadow where the green sod sank under Elizabeth’s footsteps and left muddy pools that sucked at her shoes. Finally a farmer’s cottage at the edge of a river came in sight and, to her relief here, the running fight seemed to have come to an end. She saw the wild crows perching and rocking on the boughs of a big tree before the gate, cawing in such shrill-voiced anger that she was certain they must have been somehow robbed of their prey. As she came panting into the farmyard she observed there was a pigeonhouse high up under the peak of the barn roof and it was plain, from the way in which the astonished white birds were bursting out of doors and windows, that it was in their dwelling that the harassed and desperate Dick had taken refuge. A surprised farmer, not knowing quite what to make of such a breathless and disheveled stranger, led her up the narrow stairs that climbed to the pigeon loft and opened the door upon the rows of perches and nests. Dick came fluttering to her at once, a weary and bedraggled bird, with his bright plumage torn and his head bleeding and plucked almost bare. She held him carefully as she picked her way down the steep stairs again, unable to help laughing at his croaking attempts to tell just what had happened. The farmer’s wife, a hearty, friendly woman, insisted that Elizabeth sit down in the shade of the big tree and rest a little. “I will bring you a drink of water; just wait a minute until I draw some fresh from the well,” she said. She went bustling away, leaving Betsey very glad to sit there quietly and regain her breath. It was a pleasant place, with the grassy slope before the house going down to the river, crossed, just here, by a little bridge. She sat watching the smooth water with its swinging lily pads and the quaint stone arch of the old bridge, thinking what a peaceful and picturesque spot it was. “It looks almost like one of Aunt Susan’s picture post cards,” she reflected, “only I don’t think Aunt Susan would stop long at any such quiet and out-of-the-way place as this.”