A lane, marked by two wagon
ruts, edged the course of the stream.
"Let's see where this goes," suggested Beryl.
Robin limped willingly after her. It was an alluring lane, even in
November, for the ghostly gray branches of old trees met and interlocked
close overhead, fir trees, mingling with the silver white trunks of
slender birches, walled it either side, a whirring of invisible wings
added to its apartness and the little stream, tumbling its way, sounded
like laughter.
"Isn't this the loveliest spot? Wherever do you suppose it comes out?"
For the lane twisted and turned as it climbed.
"Robin, there's a house!"
Ahead of them the girls could see through the trees the outlines of a
low square house. And as they drew nearer, walking stealthily, they
stared in amazement. For, unlike its neighbors in the village below,
this house was as white as fresh white paint could make it, at the
windows hung crisply white curtains, a brass knocker dignified its broad
door.
Robin, always imaginative, clutched Beryl's arm with a breathless
giggle. "Beryl, it's like the house of bread and cake with the window
panes of sugar.
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