"I'm going over into Fletcher county to see that school there. I'm hopin' that we can have one like it over here." The farmer nodded. "I reckon we kin manage hit," he affirmed. Turner had heard much of that school to which Matthew Blakey had taken his three children--so much that all of it could hardly be true. Now he was going to see for himself. But his thoughts, as he rode, were beyond his control and memories of Blossom crowded out the more impersonal things. At last he came to a high backbone of ridge. From there he ought to be able to catch his first glimpse of the tract which the school had redeemed from overgrown raggedness into a model farm, but as yet the dense leafage along the way cut off the view of the valley. Then he came to a more open space and reined in his horse, and as he looked out his eyes widened in astonishment. Spreading below him, he saw such even and gracious spaces of cultivation as were elsewhere unknown to the hills. Down there the fences were even and the fields smooth, but what astonished him most were the buildings. Clustered over a generous expanse of hill and valley, of field and garden all laid out as though some landscape gardener had made it a labor of love, were houses such as he had dreamed of--houses with dignity of line and proportion, with architectural beauty of design. Everything, even at that distance, could be seen to be substantially designed for usefulness, and yet everything combined with that prime object of service the quality of art. He was looking down on a tiny village, uncrowded and nestling on the varied levels of an undulating valley, and he counted out a dozen houses, recognizing some of them--the tiny hospital on its hill--the model dairies at one edge--the saw-mill sending out its fragrance--the dormitories with sleeping porches and the school-buildings themselves. This was what he had visioned--and yet he realized how cramped had been his dream as he urged his tired horse forward and listened to the whistle of a bob-white in the stubble. "Ef Blossom could know that we're goin' ter have a school like this over there!" he breathed to himself. Then as he rode along the twisting descent of road, between park-like forest trees and masses of rhododendron, and dismounted before a large house he saw a broad porch with a concrete foundation, and easy chairs and tables littered with magazines and books. From the door came a lady, smiling to greet him. It was Miss Pendleton, the woman who from small beginnings had built here in the wilderness such an achievement, and as she came to the stairs she held out her hand. "I've been greatly interested in your letters, Mr. Stacy," she said, "and I don't see why we can't repeat over there what we have done here. We have grown from very small beginnings--and now I want to show you around our premises--unless you are too tired."