Timorously, yet assentingly, she came back to your arms. The whisper of her lips against your ear was like the flutter of a rose petal. "It will be Wednesday, then," she said, "for us and--ours." Clanging a strident bell across the magic stillness of the garden, Sam bore down upon you like a steam-engine out of tune. "Oh, I say," he shouted, "for heaven's sake cut it out and come to supper." The startled impulse of your refusal faded before the mute appeal in Ladykin's eyes. "All right," you answered; "but first I must go and cable 'love' to my Father." "Oh, hurry!" cried Ladykin. Her word was crumpled and shy as a kiss. "Oh, hurry!" cried Sam. His thought was straight and frank as a knife and fork. Joy sang in your heart like a prayer that rhymed. Your eager heart was pounding like a race horse. The clouds in the sky were scudding to sunset. The surf on the beach seemed all out of breath. The green meadow path to the village stretched like the paltriest trifle before a man's fleet running pace. "But I can't hurry," you said, for Bruno-Clarice came poking his grizzled old nose into your hand. "Oh, wait for me," he seemed to plead. "Oh, please, _please_ wait for me." THE RUNAWAY ROAD THE Road ran spitefully up a steep, hot, rocky, utterly shadeless hill, and then at the top turned suddenly in a flirty little green loop, and looked back, and called "Follow me!" Wouldn't you have considered that a dare? The Girl and the White Pony certainly took it as such, and proceeded at once to "follow," though the White Pony stumbled clatteringly on the rolling stones, and the Girl had to cling for dear life to the rocking pommels of her saddle. It was a cruel climb, puff--pant--scramble--dust--glare--every step of the way, but when the two adventurers really reached the summit at last, a great dark chestnut-tree loomed up for shade, every sweet-smelling breeze in the world was there to welcome them, and the whole green valley below stretched out before them in the shining, woodsy wonder of high noon and high June. You know, yourself, just how the world looks and feels and smells at high noon of a high June! Even a pony stands majestically on the summit of a high hill--neck arched, eyes rolling, mane blowing, nostrils quivering. Even a girl feels a tug of power at her heart. And still the Road cried "Follow me!" though it never turned its head again in doubt or coquetry. It was a kind-looking Road now, all gracious and sweet and tender, with rustly green overhead, and soft green underfoot, and the pleasant, buzzing drone of bees along its clovered edges. "We might just as well follow it and see," argued the Girl, and the White Pony took the suggestion with a wild leap and cantered eagerly along the desired way.