"Imagine one rolling up to the _porte-cochère_ on the Worthington Square front!" and Jane broke into such a merry laugh that everybody joined in--for Jane had told Peter her news at the dinner-table. "Let Miss Olive and Murray and Shirley drive in their own trap, and have Pete bring out grandfather’s new surrey for us. I ’m sure it’s as trim a looking vehicle as any, if his horses don’t have quite the smartest harness going," suggested Ross McAndrew. "The horses themselves are crack-a-jacks." "That will have to do, I think," Jane agreed, "though it seems too bad to ask our guests to take themselves." "No matter in what order we go, you ’ll find we ’ll come home democratically mixed up," prophesied Ross. "I defy Miss Worthington Square to withstand the leveling influences of a day on Grandfather Bell’s farm. I ’ve no doubt Peter will drive the trap home, with Rufe hanging on the back seat, and Murray will learn what it means to coax a pair of shy farm horses past the electric cars. As for me, I may come home as jockey on young Major’s back, the city youth having proved not up to the situation." With such merry comments the preparation for the picnic was made. And if the Bells had known it, their guests looked forward to the affair with quite as pleasant anticipations as themselves. When the day came--a sultry August morning, with signs of thunder-showers in the west--Olive and Murray and Shirley found themselves as willing to risk a possible wetting as the Bells themselves, who never minded such small things as thunder-showers in the least. The farm horses--Grandfather Bell’s pride, and with reason, for they were a fine pair of blacks--led the way, the new surrey carrying such a jolly company that the guests, following close behind in the smart trap, tried in vain to rival their hilarity. The three Townsends were all arrayed in white linen from head to foot, and presented a cool and attractive spectacle; but Murray’s eyes watched with envy the parti-coloured group in the conveyance ahead, and Olive reluctantly owned to herself that Jane’s fresh little blue cotton frock, while better suited to a farm picnic than one of white linen, was also a charming spot of colour upon the landscape. "Now, who’s going fishing?" called back Peter, as he drove his steeds briskly in through Grandfather Bell’s gateway, followed by the trap at its best pace. "It’s clouding over now, so that we ought to have some good sport--if the rain holds off, and I think it will, judging by the wind. Grandfather Bell can tell us that," he added, as a tall old man of a hale and vigorous aspect came out of the house to greet his guests. "The rain won’t bother you before afternoon, I guess," prophesied Grandfather Bell, shaking hands cordially with his guests. "When it does, you ’d better put for the house. You can have your picnic indoors, where you won’t get your clothes wet," and his glance fell on the three white-clad young people from the city.