She clucked to her steed, and the old mare, disdainfully obedient, conveyed them straight through the brook--the water rising to the hub--and up the windings of a wood-road beyond. "The first thing a man wants to know on a picnic," affirmed Betty sagely, "is whether or not there's enough to eat. There isn't, but there will be." "I rest content. Betty, who taught you to dress like that?" "Do you like me--my clothes, I mean?" "I like both, profoundly." She was all in white--fluffy hat, linen shirt-waist, duck skirt, and low shoes. Her hair was done into some sort of knot on her neck--Fessenden was rather weak at deciphering a girl's coiffure. Her eyes shone wonderfully clear, and her smiles were frequent but uncertain, as if she bubbled with jokes too ethereal to share even with him. "Betty," he said, "do you mind my remarking that you look adorable to-day?" "Only to-day?" "Always, you witch! Betty, don't tell me that any mere district school made half of _you_." "Why not?" "Well, it sounds a bit impertinent of me, but your voice--your talk--your dress! And, above all, you have the air--ah----" "Of a lady, Mr. Critic?" "Exactly. One doesn't expect to find _l'air distingué_ in a farmer's daughter." "A farmer's niece." "Of course. Perhaps that makes all the difference. Do you mind my asking who your mother was, Betty?" "My mother was related to the first families of Maryland." He could hardly forbear a smile at the pride manifest in her tone. "I see. She has a right to be proud of her daughter." "Really? Bob White, that's the very nicest thing you could say to me if you'd tried a hundred years. Mother died when I was quite a little girl." Fessenden was silent. For a while, the girl guided the gray mare from wood-road to rambling lane, from lane to turnpike, and from turnpike back to lane. As they rounded a low hill, Fessenden felt the salt breath of the bay upon his face. "Where are we bound?" he asked. "To Jim George's. It's a sort of inn--a very rustic inn. He cooks delicious things. People come here for dinners from as far as Baltimore, but I think it's too early in the season yet for anybody to be here but us." "I hope so with all my heart." They ascended a sandy track through a little forest of pine, and emerged upon an open space. At the foot of a bluff the bay stretched to the horizon. On the forest side stood a log-cabin, amplified on all sides by a veranda of unbarked pine. From this structure promptly hobbled a white-haired darky. "Mawnin', lady. Mawnin', gemman, sah. A day o' glory fo' the time o' year. Yas, sah, yas, ma'am, a real day o' glory. Won't you 'light down, ma'am?" "Of course we will, Jim George, and we want some of your best shad." "Ah d'clar to gracious! Is that yo'all, Miss Betty? Good Lan'! it's been a coon's age since I seen yo' purty face round hyah. It does me proud to see a----"