riking the back of my neck."

Betty threw her armful of robes into the coach, and ran hurriedly up to the
old lady's room, coming down, in a moment, with the spectacles in one hand
and the little white shawl in the other.

"Now, we must really start, Congo," she called, as she sat down beside Mrs.
Lightfoot, and when the coach rolled along the drive, she leaned out and
kissed her hand to Champe upon the steps.

"It is a heavenly day," she said with a sigh of happiness. "Oh, isn't it
too good to be real weather?"

Mrs. Lightfoot did not answer, for she was busily examining the contents of
her black silk bag.

"Stop Congo, Betty," she exclaimed, after a hasty search. "I have forgotten
my handkerchief; I sprinkled it with camphor and left it on the bureau.
Tell him to go back at once."

"Take mine, take mine!" cried the girl, pressing it upon her; and then
turning her back upon the old lady, she leaned from the window and looked
over the valley filled with sunshine.

The whip cracked, the fat roans kicked the dust, and on they went merrily
down the branch road into the turnpike; past Aunt Ailsey's cabin, past the
wild cherry tree, where the blue sky shone through naked twigs; down the
long curve, past the tuft of cedars--and still the turnpike swept wide and
white, into the distance, dividing gay fields dotted with browsing cattle.
At Uplands Betty caught a glimpse of Aunt Lydia between the silver poplars,
and called joyfully from the window; but the words were lost in the
rattling of the wheels; and as she lay back in her corner, Uplands was left
behind, and in a little while they passed into the tavern road and went on
beneath the shade of interlacing branches.

Underfoot the ground was russet, and through the misty woods she saw the
leaves still falling against a dim blue perspective. The sunshine struck in
arrows across the way, and far ahead, at the end of the long vista, there
was golden space.

With the ten miles behind them, they came to the tavern in the early
afternoon, and, as a small tow-headed boy swung open the gate, the coach
rolled into the yard and drew up before the steps.

Jack Hicks started from his seat, and throwing his pipe aside, came
hurriedly to the wheels, but before he laid his hand upon the door, Betty
opened it and sprang lightly to the ground, her face radiant in the shadow
of her bonnet.

"Let me speak, child," called Mrs. Lightfoot after her, adding, with
courteous condescensio