One long, straight, maple-lined street, running parallel to the stream, comprised the village. They walked to the centre of it, and still saw no signs of a restaurant. A post-office, a couple of stores and a bakery made up the business portion of the town, and upon enquiry it appeared that there was no public eating house, the one hotel of the place having been sold at auction the week before on account of the death of the owner. The early village loungers stared disinterestedly at the phenomenal appearance in their midst of a couple of city folks with their luggage and no apparent means of transit except their two delicately shod feet. It presented a problem too grave to be solved unassisted, and there were solemn shakings of the head over them. At last one who had discouragingly stated the village lack of a public inn asked casually: “Hed a runaway?” “Oh, no!” laughed Gordon pleasantly. “We didn’t travel with horses.” “Hed a puncture, then,” announced the village wiseacre, shifting from one foot to the other. “Wal, you come the wrong direction to git help,” said another languid listener. “Thur ain’t no garridge here. The feller what uset to keep it skipped out with Sam Galt’s wife a month ago. You’d ought to ’a’ turned back to Ashville. They got a good blacksmith there can tinker ye up.” “Is that so?” said Gordon interestedly. “Well now that’s too bad, but perhaps as it can’t be helped we’ll have to forget it. What’s the next town on ahead and how far?” “Sugar Grove’s two mile further on, and Milton’s five. They’ve got a garridge and a rest’rant to Milton, but that’s only sence the railroad built a junction there.” “Has anyone here a conveyance I could hire to take us to Milton?” questioned Gordon, looking anxiously about the indolent group. “I wouldn’t want to drive to Milton for less’n five dollars,” declared a lazy youth after a suitable pause. “Very well,” said Gordon. “How soon can you be ready, and what sort of a rig have you? Will it be comfortable for the lady?” The youth eyed the graceful woman in her dainty city dress scornfully. His own country lass was dressed far prettier to his mind; but the eyes of her, so blue, like the little weed-flowers at her breast, went to his head. His tongue was suddenly tied. “It’s all right! It’s as good’s you’ll get!” volunteered a sullen-faced man half sitting on a sugar barrel. He was of a type who preferred to see fashionable ladies uncomfortable.