As the girl made her warm protest, her companion threw back his head and gave the hearty laugh that his friends liked to hear. They had sped down Grand Boulevard, through Washington Park, and now entered the Midway Plaisance. What that name suggested to Chicagoans up to a short time ago was the loneliest, most rural drive of their park system. It even wound through the woods at one point, making the refreshing variety of a curve in the city of straight lines. On this morning of the summer of ’89, when Mr. Van Tassel’s horses turned into the broad avenue, their hoofs rang out in unbroken stillness. Not another vehicle or human being was in sight. Birds glided noiselessly among the trees that lined each side of the driveway. Grassy fields stretched away in level, tranquil monotony in all directions. It was the Midway Plaisance: but with no dull rhythmic beat of drum to be the first greeting of each new arrival, no shadowing forth of the scenes in the near future, when this unknown plot of ground should become the rendezvous and rallying place of the civilized, half-civilized, and savage nations of the earth. It was the Midway Plaisance. What’s in a name? The words now signify to millions a babel of tongues, a baffling concatenation of noises and odors, a dizzying throng of sensations and emotions, a wondrous collection of novel sights. Yet, a little while ago it was the Midway Plaisance, and Richard Van Tassel chose to drive through it with this young girl because he wished for solitude, and he could find no more secluded and unfrequented spot. "You must be introduced to the charms of the sea before you decide on the question of my loyalty," he said. "That will never be, I fear," she answered soberly. "Never is a long time. Hope for the best," said her companion cheerily. "I do try to, but I haven’t Jack’s cork-like disposition." A sadness had crept into the girl’s tone in spite of herself. "She is thinking of Mrs. Breckinridge’s invitation," decided Van Tassel. "Your day will come. Every man and woman has his opportunity," he suggested. "I hope you are right," answered Clover rather dispiritedly. Her companion looked around at her tenderly, but her large eyes were gazing between the horses’ heads. "My poor little girl," he said, and at his tone Clover glanced at him in surprise. "Is the mother not so well?" he asked. "Something depresses you." "I do not think she is worse," answered the girl slowly, but her eyes moistened, and she looked away. "I understand. It is hard for you to be the head of the family. You will grow old before your time." Clover became afraid that she should cry. She looked resolutely at the antics of a gopher on the fence. "I have been growing young ever since we started," she answered lightly at last. "I did feel haggard with age early this morning." She might have added, and at every hour of the night; for her novel problems would not let her sleep.