"There it is, dear! One moment she's a baby, the next she's a great girl! It's hard on her, Sis." "But, Edith--that donkey!" "Poor Rose-Marie! I rode him myself--bareback and standing up!--when I was fifteen--at a circus. Do you remember?" The voice chuckled unwillingly. "You always were a tomboy, Deedee! Do you remember Joe's bull fight?" [Illustration: Caroline was not a hundred yards away, sheltering under a heavy arbor vitae, flat on her stomach.] "And the lemonade stand!" Contralto cried, with a rich swoop of laughter. Their voices took up a happy canon of gold memories; there were no more cries for Caroline. She was not a hundred yards away from the sister aunts, sheltering under a heavy arbor vitae, flat on her stomach, her nose glued to the reprehensible Moonstone: that she had heard the calls and resented them the scowl between her eyebrows exhibited. Behind her, patiently at graze, a small, mouse-colored donkey stood, shifting a pair of quaint panniers from side to side and wagging his scarlet ear tassels thoughtfully. The chapter ended, Caroline rose, peered across to the piazza, nodded to herself at the flow of voices and shrugged her shoulders. "Good old Aunt Deedee!" she muttered, "she choked her off! Now, for heaven's sake, don't bray, Rose-Marie, and perhaps we can get away. I wouldn't dare get over to the house for a luncheon; we'll have to get along with sweet-boughs." She slipped the book into one pannier, a cushion into the other and threw a worn steamer rug over the little beast's back; Caroline was a luxurious lounger and rarely traveled without her sumpter mule and his impedimenta. She led him with practiced quiet away from the house and paused under the gnarled old sweet-bough tree: the greenish-yellow, almost translucent globes dotted the lush, warm grass, their languorous sweet filled the air. Selecting a dozen thoughtfully, she added them to the donkey's load, and they went on at a foot pace, through the slowly reddening Baldwins and seek-no-furthers, the tiny lady-apples and the king-of-Tompkins-counties, through the belt of dead, warped fruit trees, blighted and gray--"like those Dore pictures," she murmured to Rose-Marie--down three, crumbling brick steps, where the little fellow picked his way as daintily as a careful lady, and across the dusty road into a pasture trail that led to a wood stretch, sparse at first, thicker as one plunged in deeper. The sun filtered through in delicious diamonds; here and there a resinous pine, steeped in heat, threw out a cloud of balmy odor; a chipmunk scuttered across their path, clicking nervously, only to squat on his haunches and stare beadily at Rose-Marie, taut with quivering curiosity. Caroline scowled at him. "Rise of the Dutch Republic!" she muttered angrily. "I think not!" The chipmunk winked sympathetically. "Your father says it's as interesting as any novel" (with startling mimicry of the piazza voice). "I notice _they_ don't read it!"