road.

Mrs. Argenter was sitting with her worsted work in the high,
many-columned terrace piazza which gave grandeur to the great
show-house that Mr. Argenter had built some five years since, when
Sylvie, with Rod Sherrett beside her, came driving up the long
avenue, or, as Mrs. Argenter liked to call it, out of the English
novels, the _approach_. She laid back her canvas and wools into the
graceful Fayal basket-stand, and came down the first flight of stone
steps to meet them.

"How late you are, Sylvie! I had begun to be quite worried," she
said, when Sylvie dropped the reins around the dasher and stood up
in the low carriage, nodding at her mother. She felt quite brave and
confident about the accident, now that Rodney Sherrett had come all
the way with her to the very door, to account for it and to help her
out with the story.

Rodney lifted his hat to the lady.

"We've had a great spill, Mrs. Argenter. All my fault, and Red
Squirrel's. Miss Argenter has brought home more than I have from the
_mêlée_. I started with a tandem, and here I am with only Gray Duke
and a borrowed saddle. It was out at Ingraham's Corner,--a quick
turn, you know,--and Miss Argenter had just stopped when Squirrel
sprang round upon her. My trap is pretty much into kindlings, but
there are no bones broken. You must let me send Rodgers round on his
way to town to-morrow, to take the phæton to the builder's. It wants
a new axle. I'm awful sorry; but after all"--with a bright
smile,--"I can't think it altogether an ill wind,--for _me_, at any