rawing the skirt about her shoulders, "I
am cold. Span-in the horses, and call me when you are ready."

She slipped down and walked toward the house, Doss stiffly following
her, not pleased at being roused. At the door she met Gregory.

"I have been looking for you everywhere; may I not drive you home?" he
said.

"Waldo drives me," she replied, passing on; and it appeared to Gregory
that she looked at him in the old way, without seeing him. But before
she had reached the door an idea had occurred to her, for she turned.

"If you wish to drive me you may."

Gregory went to look for Em, whom he found pouring out coffee in the
back room. He put his hand quickly on her shoulder.

"You must ride with Waldo; I am going to drive your cousin home."

"But I can't come just now, Greg; I promised Tant Annie Muller to look
after the things while she went to rest a little."

"Well, you can come presently, can't you? I didn't say you were to come
now. I'm sick of this thing," said Gregory, turning sharply on his heel.
"Why must I sit up the whole night because your stepmother chooses to
get married?"

"Oh, it's all right, Greg, I only meant--"

But he did not hear her, and a man had come up to have his cup filled.

An hour after Waldo came in to look for her, and found her still busy at
the table.

"The horses are ready," he said; "but if you would like to have one
dance more I will wait."

She shook her head wearily.

"No; I am quite ready. I want to go."

And soon they were on the sandy road the buggy had travelled an hour
before. Their horses, with heads close together, nodding sleepily as
they walked in the starlight, you might have counted the rise and fall
of their feet in the sand; and Waldo in his saddle nodded drowsily also.
Only Em was awake, and watched the starlit road with wide-open eyes. At
last she spoke.

"I wonder if all people feel so old, so very old, when they get to be
seventeen?"

"Not older than before," said Waldo sleepily, pulling at his bridle.

Presently she said again:

"I wish I could have been a little child always. You are good then. You
are never selfish; you like every one to have everything; but when you
are grown up there are some things you like to have all to yourself, you
don't like any one else to have any of them."

"Yes," said Waldo sleepily, and she did not speak again.

When they reached the farmhouse all was dark, for Lyndall had retired as
soon as they got home.