Neither of these fitted, however, with Miss Pierce’s plans. She gave Peter a moment to fit comfortably into his seat, knowing that if she forced the running before he had done that, he would probably sit awry for the whole drive. Then: “I can’t tell you how pleased we all are over Watts’s success. We knew, of course, he could do it if he cared to, but he seemed to think the attempt hardly worth the making, and so we did not know if he would try.” Peter breathed more easily. She had not asked a question, and the intonation of the last sentence was such as left him to infer that it was not his turn to say something; which, Peter had noticed, was the way in which girls generally ended their remarks. “Oh, look at that absurd looking cow,” was her next remark, made before Peter had begun to worry over the pause. Peter looked at the cow and laughed. He would like to have laughed longer, for that would have used up time, but the moment he thought the laugh could be employed in place of conversation, the laugh failed. However, to be told to look at a cow required no rejoinder, so there was as yet no cause for anxiety. “We are very proud of our roads about here,” said Miss Pierce. “When we first bought they were very bad, but papa took the matter in hand and got them to build with a rock foundation, as they do in Europe.” Three subjects had been touched upon, and no answer or remark yet forced upon him. Peter thought of _rouge et noir_, and wondered what the odds were that he would be forced to say something by Miss Pierce’s next speech. “I like the New England roadside,” continued Miss Pierce, with an apparent relativeness to the last subject that delighted Peter, who was used by this time to much disconnection of conversation, and found not a little difficulty in shifting quickly from one topic to another. “There is a tangled finish about it that is very pleasant. And in August, when the golden-rod comes, I think it is glorious. It seems to me as if all the hot sunbeams of the summer had been gathered up in—excuse the expression—it’s a word of Watts’s—into ‘gobs’ of sunshine, and scattered along the roads and fields.” Peter wondered if the request to be excused called for a response, but concluded that it didn’t. “Papa told me the other day,” continued Miss Pierce, “that there were nineteen distinct varieties of golden-rod. I had never noticed that there were any differences.” Peter began to feel easy and comfortable. He made a mental note that Miss Pierce had a very sweet voice. It had never occurred to Peter before to notice if a girl had a pleasant voice. Now he distinctly remembered that several to whom he had talked—or rather who had talked to him—had not possessed that attraction. “Last year,” said Miss Pierce, “when Watts was here, we had a golden-rod party. We had the whole house decked with it, and yellow lamps on the lawn.” “He told me about it,” said Peter.