The weather was very cold, and the snow-covered road would be rough. So it had been determined that Rita and her mother should travel to Indianapolis by the stage coach. But when the wagons were ready to start, at sun-up, Mrs. Bays being in bed, Rita basely deserted that virtuous woman and climbed over the front wheel to the seat beside Dic. She left a note for her mother, saying that she would go with the wagon to save the seven shilling stage fare. She knew she was making a heavy purchase of "moments," and was sure she would be called upon for instant payment that night when she should meet her mother. She was willing to pay the price, whatever it might be, for the chariot of Phoebus would have been a poor, tame conveyance compared with the golden car whereon she rode. The sun was barely above the horizon, and the crisp, cold air was filled with glittering frost dust when the wagons crossed Blue on the ice at the ford below Bays's barn. The horses' breath came from their nostrils like steam from kettle-spouts, and the tires, screaming on the frozen snow, seemed to laugh for joy. It would have been a sad moment for Rita had she not been with Dic; but with him by her side she did not so much as turn her head for one backward look upon the home she was leaving. Dic wore a coat made from mink pelts which he had taken in the hunt, and he so wrapped and enveloped Rita in a pair of soft bearskin robes that the cold could not come near her. He covered her head, mouth, nose, and cheeks with a great fur cap of his own; but he left her eyes exposed, saying, "I must be able to see them, you know." As he fastened the curtains of the cap under her chin, he received a flashing answer from the eyes that would have warmed him had he been clothed in gossamer and the mercury freezing in the bulb. If I were to tell you all the plans that were formulated upon that wagon while it jolted and bumped over the frozen ruts of the Michigan road; if I were to write down here all the words of hope and confidence in the fickle future; if I were to tell you of the glances, touches, and words of love that were given and spoken between sun-up and sun-down upon this chariot of the gods--I will say of the blind god--I should never finish writing, nor would you ever finish reading. It was:-- "You will write to me every day?" "Yes, every day." "You will think of me every day and night?" "Yes, Dic, every moment, and--" "You will come back to me soon--very soon?" "Yes, Dic, whenever you choose to take me." "And you will be brave against your mother?"