lorence could never
have a single thing to do with his paper again----"

"Well, what?"

"Well, here's her poem right at the top of it, and a _very_ friendly
item about her history mark of last June. It doesn't seem like Herbert
to be so complimentary to Florence, all of a sudden. Just struck me as
rather curious; that's all."

"Why, yes," said Mrs. Atwater, "it does seem a little odd, when you
think of it."

"Have you _asked_ Florence if she had anything to do with getting out
this week's _Oriole_?"

"Why, no; it never occurred to me, especially after what Aunt Fanny told
us," said Mrs. Atwater. "I'll ask her now."

But she was obliged to postpone putting the intended question. "Sesame
and Lilies" lay sweetly upon the seat of the chair that Florence had
occupied; but Florence herself had gone somewhere else.

She had gone for a long, long ramble; and pedestrians who encountered
her, and happened to notice her expression, were interested; and as they
went on their way several of them interrupted the course of their
meditations to say to themselves that she was the most thoughtful
looking young girl they had ever seen. There was a touch of wistfulness
about her, too; as of one whose benevolence must renounce all hope of
comprehension and reward.

Now, among those who observed her unusual expression was a gentleman of
great dimensions disposed in a closed automobile that went labouring
among mudholes in an unpaved outskirt of the town. He rapped upon the
glass before him, to get the driver's attention, and a moment later the
car drew up beside Florence, as she stood in a deep reverie at the
intersection of two roads.

Uncle Joseph opened the door and took his cigar from his mouth. "Get in,
Florence," he said. "I'll take you for a ride." She started violently;
whereupon he restored the cigar to his mouth, puffed upon it, breathing
heavily the while as was his wont, and added, "I'm not going home. I'm
out for a nice long ride. Get in."

"I was takin' a walk," she said dubiously. "I haf to take a whole lot of
exercise, and I ought to walk and walk and walk. I guess I ought to
keep on walkin'."

"Get in," he said. "I'm out riding. I don't know _when_ I'll get home!"

Florence stepped in, Uncle Joseph closed the door, and the car slowly
bumped onward.

"You know where Herbert is?" Uncle Joseph inquired.

"No," said Florence, in a gentle voice.

"I do," he said. "Herbert and your friend Henry Rooter came to o