Penny of Top Hill Trail Part 8

"And you really think there's the makings of a good woman in me?"

"Yes; I think so," he answered earnestly, "and if there's but a spark of goodness in you, she will find it and fan it to a glow."

She made a wry little grimace which fortunately he did not see.

"This goodness is nauseating me," she thought. "I shall beat it back about to-morrow."

"Look!" he cried, as the road made a sharp curve. "There it is!"

"You can lift your eyes to the hills! What a love of a place--way up on tiptoes. I'll be the little fish out of water up there!"

Top Hill Tavern was on a small plateau at the summit of one of the hills.

The ranch-house, long, low and fanciful in design, connected by a covered portico with the kitchen, dairies and buildings, was misleading in name, for a succession of higher hills was in sight. A vined pergola, flower gardens, swings, tennis courts and croquet grounds gave the place a most unranch-like appearance.

As they rode up to the entrance porch, a woman came out of the house, and instantly the big, appraising eyes of the little newcomer felt that here was a type unknown to her. She was slender, not very tall, but with a poise and dignity of manner that compelled attention. Her eyes were gray; her lashes, brows and hair quite dark. There was a serenity and repose of manner about her--the Madonna expression of gentleness--but with an added force.

"We looked for you last night, Kurt," she said in a voice, low and winning.

"Ran out of gasoline and had to spend the night on the road," he explained. "Mrs. Kingdon, this is a little girl--"

She didn't give him the opportunity to finish.

"Come in out of the sun," she urged.

Pen stepped from the car. There was no consciousness in the beautiful eyes of the "best woman in the world" that she was aware of the shabby, tan shoes, the cheap, faded and worn skirt, or the man's sweater and cap.

Pen's eyes had grown dark and thoughtful.

"Before I go in," she said turning to Kurt, "you must tell her who I am.

Not what you said you were going to tell her, but where you found me and from what you saved me."

His face flushed.

"My dear little girl," said the woman quickly, "I don't care to know--yet.

It is enough that Kurt brought you."

"Mrs. Kingdon," said Kurt awkwardly but earnestly, "she is a poor girl who needs a friend."

"We all need a friend some time or other. Come in with me."

She led her up the steps. On the top one, the girl halted.

"He found me," she told Mrs. Kingdon, "in the custody of--Bender, for stealing, and he took me away to save me from jail, to bring me up here to the 'best woman in the world,' he said, and I made light of what he had done all the way up the trail. And he was so kind to me--me, a pickpocket.

I think I should go back--to Bender."

She spoke with the impetuosity of a child, and turned to go down the steps.

Kurt looked on helplessly, perplexed by this last mood of his prismatic young prisoner.

Mrs. Kingdon took the girl's arm again.

"You are going to have a bed and bath before you leave, anyway. Come with me. Kurt, you look as if you had best go to cover, too."

Pen's outbreak had evidently spent her last drop of reserve force. She submitted meekly to guidance through a long room with low-set windows. She noted a tiled floor with soft rugs, a fireplace and a certain pervading home-sense before they turned into a little hallway. Again she faintly protested.

"I am worse than a thief," she said. "I am a liar. I haven't told him--all."

"Never mind that now," said Mrs. Kingdon soothingly. "You've been ill recently, haven't you?"

"Yes; I was just about at the end of--"

"You're at the end of the trail now--the trail to Top Hill. You shall have a bath, a long sleep and something to eat before you try to tell me anything more."

Pen went on into a sunward room generously supplied with cas.e.m.e.nt windows.

A few rugs, a small but billowy bed, a chair and a table comprised the furnishings, but an open door disclosed a bathroom and beyond that a dressing room most adequately equipped.

"This is clover," she thought presently, when she slipped into a warm bath.

"And this is some more clover," she murmured later, as, robed in a little nainsook gown, she stretched out luxuriously between lavender scented sheets. "I don't care what may come later. I know that I am going to have a real sleep."

It was five o'clock in the afternoon when she awoke. On the chair by her bed was a change of clothing, a pair of white tennis shoes, a dark blue skirt, a white middy and a red tie.

"Oh!" she thought. "The kind of clothes I love."

She hastened to dress partially, then slipped on a little negligee and began to do her hair.

"I wish it would sometimes go twice in the same place," she thought ruefully. "I never can fix it as I like. It's the only thing that ever got the better of me except Kind Kurt. Well!" with an impatient shake of her rebellious locks, "go crop-cut, if you insist. I can't help it."

Mrs. Kingdon smiled when the little girlish figure opened the door in response to her knock.

"I felt sure that that outfit, which was left here by my fifteen-year-old niece when she last visited us, would fit you, though Kurt insists that you are twenty. You had a nice sleep, didn't you?"

"I think I never really slept before. Such a bed, and such heavenly quiet!

So different from street-car racket."

"My husband and the boys have been away all day, or there wouldn't have been such quiet. Dinner is ready. Kurt didn't tell me your name."

"Penelope Lamont. My first name is always shortened to Pen or Penny."

Down stairs in the long, low-ceiling library she was introduced to Mr.

Kingdon, a man of winning personality, a philosopher and a humorist.

Ranged beside him were three appalling critics: two boys of nine and seven years respectively, and a little girl of five. They stared at her solemnly and surveyingly while she was presented to their father.

"Can you skin a weasel?" asked Francis, the oldest lad, when Pen turned to him.

"Mother said you were a young lady," said Billy. "You're just a little girl like Doris was."

"And you've got on her clothes," declared Betty sagely.