"You don't tire yourself much more, and you're sure your horse won't run away with you," Charley assents, whizzing along beside him. "I feel strong enough for a good long run yet, and we ought to catch up with them easily, before long." The winding, woody road brings them suddenly to a hill-top. To the right, below, lies a wide expanse of velvety marsh meadow, with its vivid and variegated tints of green, olive, and reddish-brown, and occasional intersections of tottering, moss-grown fence; there is a starry glimmer as of lilies in the frequent pools that give back the glory of the sun. To the left are seen the dark, still reaches of a lake that winds in and out in the cool shadow of high woody banks. An old ice-house stands lonesome and gray on its margin. The brother and sister halt on the brow of the hill, to enjoy a view that may be one of the memories of a lifetime; then the wheels roll slowly toward the descent. The slope is steep and winding; they do not "coast" with feet on the rest above the steering-wheel. It is not desirable to capsize or collide with any up-coming vehicle. So they glide warily on, with hands on the brakes, until the bottom is reached. But here a crazy guide-post at a fork in the road misleads them by pointing in the wrong direction for the Wareham road. But by great good luck, they strike a shady wood track, full two miles long, which cuts off five miles from the road they should have traveled, and which, so Starrett says when he recognizes it, will bring them just so much nearer the club. Dismounting at last, a pine-covered knoll, with a brook bubbling below, attracts them; and, seated on the brown pine-needles, the brother and sister talk over their adventures, and wonder how far ahead the others may be. Suddenly Starrett, who faces the road, drops his hands to his side with an exclamation of surprise. "What now?" says Charley, looking quickly around, A glance makes her a partner in Starrett's astonishment; for, over the main road they have just now regained, come one, two, three, four tricycles, their glittering spokes flashing in the sun. They see Joe Marston's dusky face and stalwart figure, and behind him they catch the flutter of garnet and blue--the colors of the club. Occasionally a head in the procession turns to look expectantly behind. Starrett and Charley keep close in the shade of the pines, restraining a laugh with difficulty. "Here is a good place to stop, Joe," cries Cornelia Hadwin. "It's cool and shady, and we can see the road. I think they should have caught up with us by this time. Can anything have happened,--do you suppose?" "Dunno, miss," answers Joe with a grave face. But as he dismounts to wheel his machine up the knoll, he stops short with a sudden smoothing out of all the perplexed lines from his dark brow. "Hi, dar!" he exclaims. "Look-a yer, Miss Corney!"