"Billy is as stupid as a mule, and won't go."

"I'm real sorry," said Gypsy, slowly; "you might have Nelly. We'll
change awhile."

"No," said Joy, "I'm afraid of Nelly. Besides, you wouldn't like Billy
any better than I do. It's dreadfully stupid back here alone, though. I
wish I hadn't come."

"Francis," called Gypsy, "I guess I won't race, I'm going to ride with
Joy awhile."

"Why, you needn't do that!" said Joy, rather ashamed of her complaining.
But Gypsy did do it; and though her face had clouded for the moment, a
sunbeam broke over it then that lasted the rest of the day.

The day passed very much like other picnics. They stopped in a broad,
level place on the summit of the mountain, tied the horses where they
could graze on the long, tufted wood-grass, unpacked the dinner baskets,
and devoted themselves to biscuit and cold tongue, tarts, lemonade and
current wine, through the lazy, golden nooning.

It was voted that they should not attempt the long, hot ride down the
mountain-side until the blaze of the afternoon sun should be somewhat
cooled. So, after dinner they went their several ways, finding amusement
for the sultry hours. Mr. Breynton and Tom went off on a hunt after a
good place to water the horses; Francis Rowe betook himself to a cigar;
Sarah curled herself up on the soft moss with her sack for a pillow, and
went to sleep; Mr. and Mrs. Hallam sat under the trees and read Tennyson
to each other.

"How terribly stupid that must be," said Gypsy, looking on in supreme
disgust; "let's you and I go off. I know a place where there used to be
some splendid foxberry blossoms, lot's of 'em, real pretty; they looked
just as if they were snipped out of pearls with a pair of sharp
scissors."

"I wouldn't go out of sight of us all," called Mr. Breynton, as the two
girls roamed away together among the trees.

"But you are most out of sight now," said Joy, presently.

"Oh, he didn't say we _mustn't_," answered Gypsy. "He didn't mean we
mustn't, either. Father always worries so."

It would have been well for Gypsy if her father's _wish_ had been to her
what her mother's was--as binding as a command. "Just think," observed
Gypsy, as they strolled on through the fallen leaves and redcup mosses,
"just think of their sitting still and reading poetry on a picnic! I
can't get over it. Miss Melville didn't used to do such stupid things.
It's just 'cause she's married."

"How do you know but you'll do just the s