beat of a horse's hoofs and a shrill whistle. A twelve-year-old boy was
riding toward her as fast as his big gray horse could carry him. He was
riding bareback, straight and lithe as a young Indian, his cap pushed to
the back of his head. He snatched it off with a flourish as he came
within speaking distance of the Little Colonel, his freckled face all
ashine with pleasure.

"Hello! Lloyd," he called, "I was just going to your house."

"And I was looking for you, Bobby," she answered, as informally as if
it were only yesterday they had parted, instead of eight months before.

"Come and go down to the post-office with me. I must take these
lettahs."

"All right," said Rob, wheeling the gray horse around beside the black
pony, and smiling broadly as he looked down into the Little Colonel's
welcoming eyes. "You don't know how good it feels to get back to the
country again, Lloyd. I could hardly wait for school to close, when I'd
think about the fish waiting for me out here in the creek, and the wild
strawberries getting ripe, and the horses just spoiling to be exercised.
It was more than I could stand. What have you been doing all winter?"

"Oh, the same old things: school and music lessons, and good times in
the evenin' with mothah and papa Jack and grandfathah."

As they jogged along, side by side, the Little Colonel chatting gaily of
all that had happened since their last meeting, Rob kept casting curious
glances at her. "What have you been doing to yourself, Lloyd Sherman?"
he demanded, finally. "You look so--so _different_!" There was such a