lls was a new cement culvert, overlaid with liquid mud,
where there was nothing for the chains to grip. The car slid to
the edge of the culvert and stopped on the very brink. While they
were ploughing up the other side of the hill, Enid remarked;
"It's a good thing your starter works well; a little jar would
have thrown us over."

They pulled up at the Wheeler farm just before dark, and Mrs.
Wheeler came running out to meet them with a rubber coat over her
head.

"You poor drowned children!" she cried, taking Enid in her arms.
"How did you ever get home? I so hoped you had stayed in
Hastings."

"It was Enid who got us home," Claude told her. "She's a
dreadfully foolhardy girl, and somebody ought to shake her, but
she's a fine driver."

Enid laughed as she brushed a wet lock back from her forehead.
"You were right, of course; the sensible thing would have been to
turn in at the Rice place; only I didn't want to."

Later in the evening Claude was glad they hadn't. It was pleasant
to be at home and to see Enid at the supper table, sitting on his
father's right and wearing one of his mother's new grey
house-dresses. They would have had a dismal time at the Rices',
with no beds to sleep in except such as were already occupied by
Rice children. Enid had never slept in his mother's guest room
before, and it pleased him to think how comfortable she would be
there.

At an early hour Mrs. Wheeler took a candle to light her guest to
bed; Enid passed near Claude's chair as she was leaving the room.
"Have you forgiven me?" she asked teasingly.

"What made you so pig-headed? Did you want to frighten me? or to
show me how well you could drive?"

"Neither. I wanted to get home. Good-night."

Claude settled back in his chair and shaded his eyes. She did
feel that this was home, then. She had not been afraid of his
father's jokes, or disconcerted by Mahailey's knowing grin. Her
ease in the household gave him unaccountable pleasure. He picked
up a book, but did not read. It was lying open on his knee when
his mother came back half an hour later.

"Move quietly when you go upstairs, Claude. She is so tired that
she may be asleep already."

He took off his shoes and made his ascent with the utmost
caution.

IV

Ernest Havel was cultivating his bright, glistening young
cornfield one summer morning, whistling to himself an old German
song which was somehow connected with a picture that rose in his
memory. It was a pi