They rode out into the country, the pretty, hilly country that lies north of New York. It was a warm day. Winter had not set in, although it was early December. The fields were brown, but the air was soft, and though there were no birds, except the winter ones, the sunshine was so warm that one felt as though a robin or a bluebird might sing from any orchard that the horses trotted past. “We are to lunch at a good place not far beyond here, Beth, and if you are tired I’ll telephone back to have Tim come out in the car and take Trump home for you,” Beth’s uncle said, after a long silence between them. “I’m not tired, Uncle Jim. I’m too happy to speak; that’s all,” said Beth. “At first I was boiling over, but now I’ve boiled down quiet and it’s all the stronger. It’s exactly like preserves--or soup.” Mr. Cortlandt threw back his head to laugh as boyishly as Dirk, who shouted at this speech. Reluctantly Beth allowed Trump to be taken from her by a groom when they had arrived at their destination for lunch. It seemed impossible that any one they did not know could be trusted to feed and properly care for a pony so small and so precious as Trump. After a lunch that included all the things that young palates like best and for which the riders were hungry enough to have enjoyed it if it had been of the plainest sort, Beth and her uncle sat down in one vast lounging chair in a glass-enclosed corner of the hotel piazza to rest and chat while one of them smoked. “I’d like to tell you about Frieda now, Uncle Jim, if you feel like listening,” began Beth, reaching up a hand to caress the collar of her uncle’s coat. Mr. Cortlandt took the wandering hand prisoner in one of his and stroked the fingers. “Who is Frieda, Bethie?” he asked. “My maid,” said Beth, not yet lost to the strangeness of this statement. “I’ve been wanting for days to tell you about her.” “Better have your aunt hear it, if it’s about your maid,” said Mr. Cortlandt. “It isn’t exactly; it’s Liebchen,” said Beth. “Better call your aunt over anyway, for you seem to be wandering in your mind, Bethie,” laughed Mr. Cortlandt, and he beckoned his wife to a chair beside his. She came over from where she was sitting and took it. “Beth has something to tell us about Frieda and Liebchen; I hope you may know what she means, Alida,” Mr. Cortlandt said. “Frieda did not mean to tell me, Aunt Alida,” Beth hastily made sure of this explanation. “I was talking to her while she was dressing me the other day and it all came out without her knowing it would. She felt afraid it was wrong, or that some one would think it was.” “But you know, Beth, that I am not an ogre,” suggested Aunt Alida. “So tell me about it.”