They all paused, and drew aside out of the road to let the vehicle pass. It was so dark that they could distinguish nothing clearly, and the lantern fastened to the dashboard of the buggy seemed but to throw into greater shadow the face of the occupant. To their surprise, the traveller drew rein and saluted them:-- "Hello. Just getting home, eh?" All recognized the voice. It belonged to Mr. Wingate. "Yes, just getting home," answered Amy, cheerily. "Growing pretty dark, isn't it? Hmm, yes. Heard you lost your donkey, Hallam." "For the time, I have, sir," responded the lad, rather stiffly. He hated this man "on sight," or out of it, and it was difficult for him to conquer his aversion. All the kindness he had felt toward him, on the night of Mr. Wingate's first unwelcome visit to Fairacres, had been forgotten since; because in his heart he believed that his mother's death was due to her removal from her home. Yet he wished to be just, and he would try to feel differently by and by. Meanwhile, his unused strength was fast waning. He had met with a great disappointment that day, for he was going home empty-handed. He had lost his beloved Balaam, and he had nothing to show for it. In all his life he had never walked so far as from the mill to the Bareacre knoll, and even his crutches seemed to wobble and twist with fatigue. Amy had noticed this, and made him pause to rest more than once; but the night was cold, and he felt it most unwise to risk taking cold by standing in the wind. Poverty was teaching Hallam prudence, among many other excellent things. "None of us can afford to be sick now," he reflected. "Hmm. That half-witted fellow ought not to be allowed to go free. He's done me a lot of mischief, and I guess he injures everybody who befriends him. The last thing he ought to be trusted with is horse-flesh, or mule-flesh either. Well, I'm going your way, and it's a tough pull on a pair of crutches. If you'll get in, I'll give you a lift as far as the bars." Everybody was astonished, and everybody waited for Hallam's reply in some anxiety. Amy knew his mind, and she knew, also, that he was very weary. She hoped that he would say:-- "Thank you; I'll be glad to accept," but his answer was a curt: "Thank you; I would rather walk." "Very well. Suit yourself." The horse was touched sharply, and bounded up the hill road at an unusual pace. "Oh, Hal, why didn't you ride? You are so tired." "Well--because." "You'd better. Old man don't like to have his favors lost," remarked Gwendolyn. "I've heard lots say that, even though he hasn't been at Ardsley so very long."