No one except Betty and Miss Stone used the horses now. They would have been sold long ago had it not been for the child. The carriage was a part of her--and the clicking hoofs and soft-shining skins and arching necks. The sound of the hoofs on the pavement played little tunes for Betty. Her mother had protested against expense, and her father had grumbled a little; but if the child wanted a carriage rather than the great car that could whir her away in a breath, it must be kept. It made a pretty picture this morning as it turned into the busier street and took its way among the dark, snorting cars that pushed and sped. It was like a delicate dream that shimmered and touched the pavement--or like a breath of the past... and the great cars skimmed around it and pushed on with quick honk and left it far behind. But the carriage kept its way with unhurried rhythm--into the busy street and out again into a long avenue where great houses of cement and grey stone stood guard. No one was in sight, up and down its clear length--only the morning sun shining on the grey stones and on the pavement--and the little jingling in the harness and the joyous child and the quiet grey woman beside her. “I shall not be gone a minute, Betty,” said Miss Stone. The carriage had drawn up before the great shadow of a house. She gave the child’s hand a little pat and stepped from the carriage. But at the door there was a minute’s question and, with a nod to Betty, she stepped inside. When the door opened again, and she came out with quick step she glanced at her watch--the errand had taken more than its minute, and there were others to be done, and they were late. She lifted her eyes to the carriage--and stopped. The coachman, from the corner of his eye, waited for orders. But Miss Stone did not stir. Her glance swept the quiet street and came back to the carriage--standing with empty cushions in the shadow of the house. The coachman turned a stolid eye and caught a glimpse of her face and wheeled quickly--his eye searching space. “There wa’n’t nobody!” he said. He almost shouted it, and his big hands gripped hard on the reins.... His face was grey--“There wa’n’t nobody here!” he repeated dully. But Miss Stone did not look at him. “Drive to the Greek’s. You know--where she went before.” She would not give herself time to think--sitting a little forward on the seat--of course the child had gone to the Greek--to Mr. Achilles.... They should find her in a minute. There was nothing else to think about--no shadowy fear that had leaped to meet the look in James’s face when it turned to her. The child would be there-- The carriage drew up before the shop, with its glowing lines of fruit under the striped awning, and Miss Stone had descended before the wheel scraped the curb, her glance searching the door and the dim room beyond. She halted on the threshold, peering in.