why he was able to take her to ride! She wondered if
she ought to offer her congratulations, but finally decided to keep
silent. S he was not supposed to know of his engagement.

The road wound up through a maze of yellow. Tall trees on either
side sifted their gold down upon the travelers. Juanita Sterling
caught a leaf in her hand and held it.

"How beautiful it is!" she said, and drew a deep breath.

The man turned to look at her trophy. "Oh, no! I mean the way,"
she explained. "It is strange, but it makes me think of heaven."

"The streets of gold?" he smiled.

"M--no," she replied doubtfully. "I can't quite tell myself; but I
think it is the peace and the glory of it--the spirit of the place."

His eyes were on her face, and the car bumped over a stone.

"There! That's because I was looking at you!" he laughed. "A
motorman shouldn't gaze at a princess."

She gave a little gurgling laugh; then she grew grave again.

"What do you say," he asked abruptly, "to keeping on over the
mountain to Bryston and have dinner?"

Her heart gave a joyful leap, yet she answered quietly, "I am
afraid--I'd better not."

"Oh, yes," he urged, "let's keep on! I am selfish, I know; but I'd
rather eat dinner with you than to eat it at home alone, and I'm
sure that Squirrel Inn will give you a more appetizing meal than
the Dragon will furnish."

"I dare say," she responded. "What a bewitching name for an inn!
Is it as captivating as it sounds?"

"More," he smiled. "It is the inn that has made Belgian hare
famous."

She laughed softly, and he speeded the car.

"I took Mrs. Puddicombe up there one day, and she has raved about
it ever since. The house itself is very old, with little windows
and a gambrel roof, and a well-sweep in the rear. They say, half
of the garret is given over to the squirrels."

"What a delightful place! I shall love it, I know!" Inwardly,
however, she amended, "Maybe I shan't!" thinking of Mrs. Puddicombe.

But once seated at the quaint little table, in the old high-backed
chair, eating what tasted better than the best chicken that ever
went into an oven, Juanita Sterling forgot Mrs. Puddicombe and her
daughter Blanche, and smiled upon everything.

"I am having more dinners to-day than my share," she observed over
the pumpkin pie and cheese. "We have ours at twelve, you know."

"What did you have?"

"Codfish balls and pickles and stale bread and butter."

"No dessert?"

"No," sh