"Wait till December," whispered Hope, just stirring his wounded, drooping wings, just trembling with a faint life that for days had seemed extinct. "Yes," I thought, with a bitter sigh, "in December I shall be of age, it will be a glorious thing to be my own mistress! To begin the world when I've lost all interest in it--to do as I please when there's nothing on earth that pleases me--to be free from restraint and authority, and from all human love and care! To be _independent!_ God help me! What a glorious thing it will be. All hope points to December!" But my release, such as it was, was nearer than December. I might have spared myself the hateful anticipations with which I blackened the fresh summer morning. I had not seen any further into futurity than the rest of the human family, who fret about their fate and look whole years ahead, and put the misery of a lifetime into the present, and torture themselves about what they know is, and fear is to be, till the flood of God's judgment comes and sweeps all away, and leaves them bewildered in the midst of a strange desolation and a new terror. "Phil," said Capt. McGuffy, as we rode slowly along through the loveliest, freshest country, washed by last night's rain; and gleaming in the morning sun--of which I had not seen one beauty, in my absorbing anxiety--"Phil, may I trust this young lady to you, if I leave you at the cross-road? I want to ride over to Brandon for half an hour before dinner." "Oh, Captain McGuffy!" I exclaimed, startled out of future fears by present dangers, "why do you take that tiresome ride this morning? It will be sunny and disagreeable before you get back to Rutledge; wait till after dinner." The captain still leaned to the idea of accomplishing it all "under one head," and having the rest of the day at home I didn't dare to press the subject, but seeing my only chance lay in engrossing their attention to the exclusion from their memories of the Brandon project, I worked faithfully to accomplish my design, and succeeded in a great measure. Before we had gone another half mile, I had enticed the captain into the enthusiastic description of a bull-baiting in Mexico, at which Phil and he had "assisted," and into the recollection of which they both seemed to enter with great ardor. We were on the top of Ridgway Hill--the road for a good mile stretched away at its foot, while on the left, branched off the Brandon turnpike. "Heaven send they may forget it!" I ejaculated, bending forward to renew my questions about the bull-baiting. The carriages were coming close behind--the bull-fight soon began to flag. "Phil," began the captain again. "Capt. McGuffy," I cried, "Madge is fairly beside herself this morning, I can hardly hold her; we have been creeping all the way from the Grove, what do you say to a race, a bona fide race, and I'll ask no favor. It's a clear road from here to Rutledge, and he's the best fellow who clears the park gate first!"