"Will you promise to go slow?" "There's a fine for exceeding the speed limit," twinkled Mr. Black. "Well, I'm glad of that," said Mrs. Crane, permitting her patient brother to help her into the vehicle. "My! but these cushions are soft." "Yes," said Bettie, "it's just like sitting on baking powder biscuits before they're baked." "How do you know?" asked Mr. Black. "Because I've tried it. You see, ministers' wives are dreadfully interrupted persons, and one night when Mother was making biscuits some visitors came. Instead of popping one of the pans into the oven, mother dropped it on a dining-room chair on her way to the door and forgot all about it. When I came in to supper that chair was at my place and I flopped right down on those biscuits! And I had to _stay_ sitting on them because Father had asked one of the visitors--_such_ a particular-looking person--to stay to tea; and I knew that Mother wouldn't want a perfectly strange man to know about it." "That was certainly thoughtful," smiled Mr. Black. "Now, is every one comfortable? If she is, we'll go for those extra wraps." The new machine rolled down the street and turned the corner in the neatest way imaginable. Mrs. Crane looked decidedly uneasy at first; but when Mr. Black had successfully steered the birthday present past the ice wagon, a coal team, a prancing pony and two street cars, she folded the hands that had been nervously clutching the side of the car and leaned back with a relieved sigh. But when Mabel asked a question, Mrs. Crane silenced her quickly. "Don't talk to him," she implored. "There's no telling _what_ might happen to us if he were to take any part of his mind off that--that helm, for even a single second. Don't even _look_ at him." What did happen was this. After the extra wraps had been collected and donned, Mr. Black carried his charges all the way to Bancroft, a distance of seventeen miles, in perfect safety. The road was good, the day was mild and the only team they passed obligingly turned in at its own gate before they reached it. They stopped in front of the biggest and best hotel in Bancroft. "Everybody out for dinner," ordered Mr. Black. "But, Peter," expostulated Mrs. Crane, hanging back, bashfully, "I'm in my every-day clothes." "Well, this isn't Sunday; and you always look well dressed. You're a very neat woman, Sarah." "Well I _am_ neat, but black alpaca isn't silk even if my sleeves _are_ this year's. And for goodness' sake, Peter, don't ask me to pronounce any of that bill of fare if it isn't plain every-day English, for you know there isn't a French fiber in my tongue. You order for me. There's only one thing I can't eat and that's parsnips." It was a very nice dinner and plain English enough to suit even matter-of-fact Mrs. Crane. After the first few bashful moments, the four girls chattered so merrily that all the guests at other tables caught themselves listening and smiling sympathetically.