at the beginning of March, in a blinding blizzard, and the mothers died from exposure. The gallant Trevor took horse and spurred all over the county, from one little settlement to another, buying up nursing bottles and nipples to feed the orphan lambs.
The rich bottom land about the Trevor place had been rented out to a truck gardener for years now; the comfortable house with its billiard-room annex—a wonder for that part of the country in its day—remained closed, its windows boarded up. It sat on the top of a round knoll, a fine cottonwood grove behind it. Tonight, as Claude drove toward it, the hill with its tall straight trees looked like a big fur cap put down on the snow.
“Why hasn’t some one bought that house long ago and fixed it up?” Enid remarked. “There is no building site around here to compare with it. It looks like the place where the leading citizen of the town ought to live.”
“I’m glad you like it, Enid,” said Bayliss in a guarded voice. “I’ve always had a sneaking fancy for the place myself. Those fellows back there never wanted to sell it. But now the estate’s got to be settled up. I bought it yesterday. The deed is on its way to Hartford for signature.”
Enid turned round in her seat. “Why Bayliss, are you in earnest? Think of just buying the Trevor place off-hand, as if it were any ordinary piece of real estate! Will you make over the house, and live there some day?”
“I don’t know about living there. It’s too far to walk to my business, and the road across this bottom gets pretty muddy for a car in the spring.”
“But it’s not far, less than a mile. If I once owned that spot, I’d surely never let anybody else live there. Even Carrie
