's niece, and I have never been here before. Where
does she live?"

"Up yander."

He flourished the discarded fish-pole which served as a whip, and
pointed out a small white house on the brow of the hill. Reflection
brought him the conviction that his remark concerning Miss Hathaway was
a social mistake, since his passenger sat very straight, and asked no
more questions.

The weary wheels creaked, but the collapse which Miss Thorne momentarily
expected was mercifully postponed. Being gifted with imagination,
she experienced the emotion of a wreck without bodily harm. As in a
photograph, she beheld herself suddenly projected into space, followed
by her suit case, felt her new hat wrenched from her head, and saw
hopeless gravel stains upon the tailored gown which was the pride of her
heart. She thought a sprained ankle would be the inevitable outcome of
the fall, but was spared the pain of it, for the inability to realise an
actual hurt is the redeeming feature of imagination.

Suddenly there was a snort of terror from one of the horses, and the
carriage stopped abruptly. Ruth clutched her suit case and umbrella,
instantly prepared for the worst; but Joe reassured her.

"Now don't you go and get skeered, Miss," he said, kindly; "'taint
nothin' in the world but a rabbit. Mamie can't never get used to
rabbits, someways." He indicated one of the horses--a high, raw-boned
animal, sketched on a generous plan, whose ribs and joints protruded,
and whose rough white coat had been weather-worn to grey.

"Hush now, Mamie," he said; "'taint nothin'."

"Mamie" looked around inquiringly, with one ear erect and the other at
an angle. A cataract partially concealed one eye, but in the other was
a world of wickedness and knowledge, modified by a certain lady-like
reserve.

"G' long, Mamie!"

Ruth laughed as the horse resumed motion in mincing, maidenly steps.
"What's the other one's name?" she asked.

"Him? His name's Alfred. Mamie's his mother."

Miss Thorne endeavoured to conceal her amusement and Joe was pleased
because the ice was broken. "I change their names every once in a
while," he said, "'cause it makes some variety, but now I've named'em
about all the names I know."

The road wound upward in its own lazy fashion, and there were trees
at the left, though only one or two shaded the hill itself. As they
approached the summit, a girl in a blue gingham dress and a neat white
apron came out to meet them.

"Come rig