"I watched her on the train," the Major confessed as he and Randy drove off. "She read all the way down, and smiled over her book. I saw the title, and it was 'Pickwick Papers.' Fancy that in these days. Most young people don't read Dickens." "Well, she isn't young, is she?" "Not callow, if that's what you mean, you ungallant cub. But she is young in contrast to a Methuselah like myself." Kemp had to look after Miss MacVeigh's trunks, so Randy's little car went on ahead. Thus again Fate pulled wires, or Providence. If the big car had had the lead Madge would have gone straight as an arrow to Hamilton Hill. But as it happened, Little Sister barred the way to the open road. II The two cars had to pass the Flippins. Mrs. Flippin and Mary were baking cakes for the feast at Huntersfield. Mrs. Flippin was to go over in the afternoon and help Mandy, and to-morrow Truxton and his mother would arrive. "The Judge is like a boy," said Mrs. Flippin; "he's so glad to have Truxton home." "Perhaps he won't be so glad when he gets here----" "Why not?" Mrs. Flippin turned and stared at her daughter. Mary was seeding raisins, wetting her fingers now and then in a glass of water which stood on a table by her side. "Well, Truxton may be changed--most of the men are, aren't they?" "Is Randy Paine changed?" "Yes, Mother." "How?" "He's a grown-up." "Well, he needed to grow, and it wouldn't hurt Truxton either." "But if Truxton has grown up and wants his own way--the Judge won't like it. The Judge has always ruled at Huntersfield." "Well, he supports Truxton; why shouldn't he?" A bright flush stained Mary's skin. "Truxton has his officer's pay now." "He won't have it when he gets out of the Army." Mary rose and went to the stove. She came back with a kettle and poured boiling water over a dish of almonds to blanch them. "We ought to have made this fruit cake a week ago to have it really good," she said, and shelved the subject of Truxton Beaufort. "It will be good enough as it is," said Mrs. Flippin; "there isn't anybody in the county that can beat me when it comes to baking cakes." "Where's Fiddle," Mary said, suddenly; "can you see her from the window, Mother?" Mrs. Flippin could not. "Well, she's probably sailing her celluloid fish in the chickens' water pan," said Mary; "I'll go out and look her up in a minute." But Fiddle was not sailing celluloid fish. Columbus-like she had decided that there were wider seas than the water pan. Once upon a time her grandmother had taken her to the bottom of the hill, and at the bottom of the hill there had been a lot of water, and Fiddle had walked in it with her bare feet, and had splashed. She had liked it much better than the chickens' pan. So she had picked up her three celluloid fish and had trotted down the path. She wore her pink rompers, and as she bobbed along she was like a mammoth rose-petal blown by the wind.