Josie shifted the strap of school-books under her arm impatiently.
"'Only!'" she repeated. "Well, I just wish I was going, too; it's a
deal pleasanter out there, than in a stuffy school room these days."

"It's stupid--and you both know it," Hilary protested. She glanced
enviously at Josie's strap of hooks. "And when school closes, you'll
be through for good, Josie Brice. We shan't finish together, after
all, now."

"Oh, I'm not through yet," Josie assured her. "Father'll be going out
past The Maples Saturday morning, I'll get him to take me along."

Hilary brightened. "Don't forget," she urged, and as she and Pauline
drove on, she added, "I suppose I can stick it out for a week."

"Well, I should think as much. _Will_ you go on, Fanny!" Pauline
slapped the dignified, complacent Fanny with rather more severity than
before. "She's one great mass of laziness," she declared. "Father's
spoiled her a great deal more than he ever has any of us."

It was a three-mile drive from the village to The Maples, through
pleasant winding roads, hardly deserving of a more important title than
lane. Now and then, from the top of a low hill, they caught a glimpse
of the great lake beyond, shining in the afternoon sunlight, a little
ruffled by the light breeze sweeping down to it from the mountains
bordering it on the further side.

Hilary leaned back in the wide shaded gig; she looked tired, and yet
the new touch of color in her cheeks was not altogether due to
weariness. "The ride's done you good," Pauline said.